


And I Feel You With Ease

by thestargirl



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Daddy Kink, Drugs, Glam Scene, Lots of Angst, M/M, Musicians, Nightmares, Nostalgia, PTSD, Paris - Freeform, Past Abuse, Past Heroin Abuse, Punk Scene, Rough Sex, Seattle, Spanking, Switching, gay pining, its his baby, this is largely written by @boy7god7 on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:06:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 42,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestargirl/pseuds/thestargirl
Summary: Ten years after the Maxwell Demon fake assassination stunt and the later disappearance of the star himself, Curt Wild releases an album that drudges up all multitude of ghosts of the past, and in a whirlwind of nostalgia and tugs at heart strings, he finds himself flung back in the orbit of a man he once knew quite well.





	1. Jesus Of The Moon

_ A blur of motion, deep blue and streaks of emerald, flecks of gold. The scene spinning.  _

_ And then it stops, abruptly.  _

_ The world around him is crystalline, and he’s standing on the edge of what looks to be a cliff, an edge, but it’s all shadow, like he’s standing on fog shaped like rocks.  _

_ The sky above is vast and dark, stars with bright halos fill the black. It doesn’t look like the sky should look, it’s blended with brush strokes like a painting, and flickering like a tv screen.  _

_ He’s reaching out an arm, towards the stars, and though just a moment ago it looked to be far away, his hand goes right up and passes through it. The sky ripples like it’s been water all along.  _

_ In the dim blue light of this technicolor night, his hair looks to be deep violet. It’s long, in waves, just past his shoulders. Though his face can’t be seen now, it’s clear that it’s him. He’s saying something but it’s too soft to make out. Then he turns around. The stars reflecting in his eyes, mouth parted, he’s crying. The will to move closer is overwhelming but he’s cemented to where he stands, observing. He tries calling out to him, but nothing comes out. It all blurs again, spins and spins, and then disintegrates.  _

 

* * *

Curt opens his eyes. White ceiling. No more stars. No more night sky. His head is fogged, he tries to grasp reality and real time. He blinks. He shifts. And an increasingly uneasy feeling quickly sets in. 

The thought creeps into his head before he can stop it, before he can violently shove it away, beat it to death before it can have any bearing on him. That was Brian. That was long auburn haired, young pre-Maxwell Demon Brian Slade, a version he hadn’t even known, only ever seen in photographs. That was what he remembered at least, though the vision had been clear, familiar, as if he’d seen it with his own eyes before. Curt rubs his face, his hands feel tingly and dirty. He’s always felt real emotion physically, in the tips of his fingers, in his knees, his shoulders, his stomach. He doesn’t want to think about this now. Brian’s long gone, he’s not here and he hasn’t been for ten years. Yet still the ghost of teary blue eyes hangs in Curt’s head like a tapestry. The more he tries to rip it down the stronger the image grows. It’s been years. It’s been years and he doesn’t want to think about this anymore. He doesn’t have to. It’s over. It’s not something he has to deal with anymore. His hands feel dirty. 

He rips the bed sheets off, gets up and goes into the bathroom connected to his bedroom. His legs are stiff. He scrubs his hands with soap and cold water, in an attempt to ground himself. He has somewhere to be, he has shit to work on and this is a dumb thing to be this out of it over. This isn’t what he should be spending energy on.

 

* * *

“Ground control to Curt Wild.” 

He’s startled and feels himself jump, almost knocking his guitar off of his lap. 

“What?” 

“You’ve been sitting there staring off into space for ages.” Malcolm says, mockingly. “I don’t know _ what’s  _ wrong with you but if we’re not gonna work on the record you should at least let Jack and I go home.” 

It’s the 80s now, and times have changed, but musically Curt and Jack Fairy still work together from time to time. Of course, now Jack and Malcolm O’Hara, lead singer of the Flaming Creatures, are a package deal. He’s mean, annoying, and snarky a lot of the time, but he’s a good musician and an even better creative addition to the record they’ve been in the studio working on for the past few weeks. 

“Is something wrong? You really haven’t been present at all today.” Jack asks, voice soft and gentle. 

Things had been a lot easier between them since they’d decided they were better off just friends and business partners. Especially since Jack had gotten with Malcolm. 

Now that Curt lived in Seattle and the two of them were usually back in Berlin, they had enough space that when they were together they had a nicer time together. Well, at least Curt and Jack that is. 

“No, sorry,” He finally answers. “Just had a weird dream. Been kinda-”

“So have a joint and get over it.” Malcolm interjects. 

“Darling I really don’t think that’ll help much in this situation…” Jack tries, but he’s already lighting up, taking a drag and passing it to Curt. 

He takes it between his fingers, and brings it up to his lips, taking a quick inhale and handing it back over to Malcolm. 

“What, that’s all?” 

“If I have too much I’ll just get more tired.” 

“Pussy.” 

“Do you want to get work done or not, asshole?” 

“I don’t much care, you asked  _ us  _ to help _ you.  _ It’s your record-” 

Jack clears his throat. 

“Sorry,” Malcolm says, sighing and taking another drag. “I’m calm. I’m serene. I’m not going to argue anymore.” 

“Thank you.” 

Curt’s moved on already, he’s strumming a few chords on his sticker-covered acoustic and humming under his breath. 

“Got something new for us?” 

“Maybe.” 

* * *

He doesn’t actually finish the song until later that day, sitting in his regular spot at Arlo’s, which is a shitty little diner with burnt orange walls and olive green cracked booth covers. He adores the owners, an older couple, both very grandparent-like. The husband, Curt, is rather fond of him, and he’s pretty sure it’s because they share the name and that’s all it took. 

Curt  _ Wild _ is in the corner, sitting leaned against the wall with his legs across the bench, crossed at the ankles, his battered composition notebook half sliding out of his lap. He tunes out the current hits radio as words flow from somewhere above him into his hand and onto the lined paper. 

He’s smoking cigarette after cigarette, things coming to him that he didn’t know he still cared about. The waitstaff ignores him, save for occasionally refilling his coffee. 

Lines come around about the St. James hotel, crashing waves, coarse sand, a green pin and tears about the stars. He knows he’s letting his dream fuck him with, but he hasn’t dreamed about Brian in ages. Maybe not since they were together. No. After the assassination-or, the fake assassination. Not since then. 

That was a long time ago. He keeps telling himself that. Why is he trying to convince himself of any of that like it’s not true? It wasn’t an issue anymore, he was over it. They’d both disappeared, changed. Last he’d had heard of him, Brian had gone back to Birmingham. He’d found that so strange. Why would he want to go back to a home that was never home to him, with all the stories he’d told about his parents? 

And why does Curt care?

Yet, here he is, writing a stupid reminiscent song about a trip he’d taken ten years ago, and wondering about him, where he is now, and what he’s doing. 

The song is done, lyrically, at least, and he wonders if Jack and Malcolm will be able to tell who it’s about. He dreads having to explain. 

They both despise Brian. With good reason, he supposes. 

Why doesn’t he feel that same anger, that same resentment? 

Maybe the grief, the panic, the sadness, and then the blinding anger faded over time. Because maybe that wasn’t the important part about knowing him. 

With that thought, Curt collects his notebook, lighter, and carton of cigarettes, gets up from his seat, throws a few dollars onto the table, and heads home. 

  
  



	2. Days Were Golden

_ He’s being pulled down a seemingly endless, powder blue striped walled hall. No windows, no doors, no electric lights, yet there’s a clear glow illuminating the space. The hand gripping his is soft. He feels breathless. They’re gliding carelessly towards nothing, feet not quite touching the floor. Time is slow. The laws of physics do not apply. And he’s a winged creature, maybe they both are. He hears a muted ethereal humming. He asks him where they’re going.  _

_ “You’ll see.”  _

_ A few more beats and the hallway disappears. Shattering around them like stained glass, giving away to blue sky, clear ocean, white sand. And he feels elated. He grips the hand tightly, but it’s slipping away now. He’s standing in front of him, wearing loose fitting clothes that are rippling in the wind like a silk flag. He’s grinning, a playful glint in his eyes. Or maybe that’s the sun. His hair is light, and clipped elegantly short. And now the sky and the ocean aren’t separated. Everything around Brian is waves. Crashing sea foam white in a halo.  _

_ “Are you coming in?” He asks, promises and anticipation in his voice.  _

_ Then he disappears.  _

_ He goes after him, but the ocean becomes dark blue curtains, and parting them, he only finds a vast darkness.  _

_ “Curt, wake up.”  _

* * *

__

Fuck. He’d fallen asleep in the studio again. He sits up from the couch, too quickly, making himself dizzy. Dark green dots float in his vision. He blinks them away. 

“Sorry, sorry I know I said I wouldn't do this anymore.” Curt says, frantically, his voice raspy. 

His eyes focus on Malcolm, who’s staring at him with a bit of concern that quickly turns to annoyed disinterest. 

“ _ Well,”  _ He says, combing fingers through his flawless black bob. “I don’t particularly care what you do, at least we’ve gotten something done. I’m going home, and Jack would be mad if I just left you here, after they’d closed up and locked the doors. You’d wake up, all confused and pathetic, and would be trapped here. That’d be just  _ terrible.”  _ _   
_ Curt sighs, and rubs his eyes. 

“You were talking in your sleep.” 

Fuck. His dream comes swinging back full force.  _ Oh god. _

Malcolm doesn’t elaborate further, he just gives Curt a knowing smirk and walks out, the door of the studio room slamming behind him. 

* * *

It’s been a week since that first dream about Brian. He’s barely been sleeping. 

Curt doesn’t deal with the past well. He doesn’t like to think about, or rather, deal with the regret, guilt, longing, any of that shit. 

Yet the feelings and memories came through in the songs whether he wanted them to or not, and he can’t get away from the dreams.  It seems like every single time he closes his eyes, there’s some new swirling scene, cryptic dialogue, and a strange mix of sorrow and elation. 

The previous day,  _ Tumbling Down _ had come on the radio at the diner, and Curt had to physically leave because he couldn’t handle the emotions that came with that. For the rest of the day he’d just picked at his fingers and smoked, because he wasn’t willing to let himself dwell on his thoughts, but he couldn’t completely push them away either, so he’d just stared off into space. 

The whole week had been like that, and the only thing that was helping was channeling all of it into the music. He can tell Malcolm knows, especially now, although he’s not sure if Jack has caught on. 

Back at his apartment, he paces. He has a collection of underground punk bands playing on the turntable, but it doesn’t scratch the itch, or clear his head like it usually does. 

Curt goes to his kitchen table, piled with papers and messy with various things he’d thrown there, clears a space and rolls a joint. 

He takes a long drag, and brings it into the living room where he lays on the couch, closes his eyes, and just listens. 

His body feels like it’s vibrating. Bursts of color explode against the dark. He thinks about sound. There was a condition- he doesn’t remember what it’s called- where people physically see colors and shapes when listening to music. Curt wonders if he’s known anyone like that. Not Jack, not Malcolm, or any of the Creatures. Not the people in his band, they don’t have that sort of sixth sense. Or- is that what that is? A sixth sense? It’s really only senses combined. 

The phone rings. A shrill, piercing sound, and he groans and rolls off the couch. He puts out the joint on the coffee table ashtray, and makes his way towards the kitchen. He hopes it’s important. 

“Hello? I was given this number, I was told I could reach Curt Wild. I wanted to ask about Brian Slade.” The boy’s voice is soft and hesitant, polite, not demanding at all, but Curt feels anger stirring in his stomach. Brian is fucking haunting him. 

“Look, I don’t know where you got this number, but Curt Wild is not available, and not interested in talking to anyone on this subject. You got it?” 

He slams the phone back onto the hook. 

How the fuck _ did  _ that guy get his number? He doesn’t want to think about this now. Christ, he only just chilled out a little. He can physically feel the high going bad. 

* * *

That night, he doesn’t even try to force himself to sleep. He goes through two cartons of cigarettes, and he hears Jack’s voice in his head. ‘ _ You should really try to cut back, it’s bad for you.’  _ He had quit, and was convinced he could make everyone else quit too if he just nagged them enough. 

Curt sits by the open window, looks out over the cars and empty shops and streetlights, and allows himself to write without steering his thoughts. 

It’s like the years of trying to move past trauma have taught him- your feelings are just that: feelings. They don’t mean you have to do anything. They aren’t right or wrong, and you can’t change them. All you can do is recognize them, sit with them, get to know them, and ignoring them usually only makes them grow stronger. 

And so, he allows the full extent of them to spill out onto the lined paper of his notebook. The words connect with the chords progressions like stars connect to create constellations. It’s a kind of catharsis he’s never allowed himself. 

Being with Brian changed his life, and no amount of forgetting or repressing was going to erase that. There are things he’s holding onto that he isn’t ready to let go of, some things he couldn’t even if he tried. 

If he can’t find what any of this means now, he doesn’t have to. What he does know is that he’s turning it into art. Decent music. That was something Brian had always done for him. Given him something to sing about. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Never Lost Control

There are Polaroid pictures scattered throughout the house, as there always have been, wherever Brian has lived. They are under beds, tucked into books, hidden beneath the socks in his dresser. He has them yellowing on the coffee table, spoiling on the mantle- pictures of nothing, of no one. Merely of people he has found interesting, of flowers, of the ocean, of his shoes: Always blurry, always unfocused and excited. He’s never fancied himself a photographer.

Back when he was very young, when he was first discovering the underground clubs in London, he’d been a nuisance. He’d had entire boxes filled with photographs of drag performers, of pearl necklaces and platform shoes, anything that seemed outrageous. Dating even before that, he had devoted endless rolls of film to the long hair and love beads that had obsessed him before: of himself and of friends he no longer knew the names of. He’d documented their endless attempts to mimic John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix, their devotion to the movement that had amounted to nothing, just like every other movement before it.

 

He had pictures of he and Mandy’s first flat, and of their strange little wedding in the park that was made up of three friends and a picnic. He had pictures of Cecil’s smiling face when he came over for lunch, and pictures of him naked in bed afterwards. Pictures of his own flowing hair and gowns, pictures of the dressing rooms of dateless gigs he’d played. He had pictures of Trevor and Shannon- Trevor frowning tiredly at whatever gaudy new outfit he’d been asked to wear, Shannon looking tense and wilted. He had pictures of Jerry in his giant office with the horrible carpet, and pictures of the staff lounging around it like Victorian dandies, not a care in the world beyond what they would be doing for fun that evening.

 

All of these had been an attempt to capture something, some feeling that he knew he wouldn’t get back. Usually, when he stumbled across them, he couldn’t remember what the feeling had been. He didn’t have many of the old ones anymore. He’d left most of them in London, when he’d run away- those he found, if they held any significance, he burned. For the first three years of living in Paris, he’d taken that approach. Brian found that he liked erasing things almost as much as he’d liked preserving them.

But considering how hasty he’d been when he’d fled from Birmingham that last time- and he had been hasty, leaving in the middle of the night without a word to his mother- he shouldn’t be surprised that he’d forgotten to leave this one. He probably had many more like it lying around, waiting like ticking bombs.

 

In it, Curt is probably twenty five, lanky, greasy, and rumpled. He’s stretched out on the window seat of Brian’s old room, a dark shadow against the white wall. In his hands, he holds a battered copy of  _ Down On The Street _ , which Brian had only bought because it was the first piece of Curt Wild-related media he’d seen in England. How excited he’d been. How embarrassing it had seemed at the time, for Curt to find it. He looks smug, and surprised: Brian vaguely remembers that he was humiliated with having his picture taken.

_ -Why did you do that? _

_ -Well, it makes a nice picture. _

_ -Of what? _

_ \- Of nothing. Of you. _

 

It had been tucked carelessly into Brian’s old copy of  _ A Clockwork Orange.  _ He’d probably done it a long time ago, in England, when he and Curt were young and stupid and close. Maybe he’d done it so he would smile when he opened the book again, maybe it had been because they had so many pictures of each other that it was the closest thing at hand. He can’t understand how he could have been so flippant with something like this now- so many pointless photographs and he’d used this one as a bookmark.

 

The light of early morning slips under Brian’s shade and spills across his bed and book, obscuring Curt’s face. Brian finds that he is very cold, and much older than he has been for the past fifteen minutes.

1972 fades like old paper, and 1985 starts up again, in a strange, bright flat.

 

He’s going to be late to the theatre if he doesn’t get up, and he has to get up today. It’s not long until opening night.

He glances to the table in the corner- his newest play sits unfinished, a mess of papers he’d abandoned at midnight. He’s been having such a good month, and now it’s all erased. The stifling, familiar mix of sweet nostalgia and worthlessness is on him again. Not as choking as it had been in Birmingham, when it had overwhelmed him almost to the point of insanity, but far too heavy for comfort.

 

Luckily, the phone rings next to his bed, forcing him to move.

“Mr. Stoningham?”

“Hullo.”

“Hello, we’ve had a bit of an emergency- your lead is being a bit demanding-won’t rehearse”

“I’ll be down, shortly.”

“Thank you.”

Brian hangs up, and swings to his feet, feeling a bit better. Yes, he is Mr. Stoningham now, of Paris, France: a well-known but still humble playwright, a bachelor with few friends and no real enemies. He’s getting up to deal with an unruly actor, and then maybe he’ll go to lunch, then he’ll have to come home and feed his cat.

Brian Slade, in all his tackiness, is long gone. His youthful, irrational feelings are gone with him.

_ I’ve become what I always feared,  _ he thinks, sliding on his jacket,  _ a dull, old man. _

_ I believe I prefer that. _

 

Brian picks up the Polaroid, careful not to look at it, and opens his bedroom window.

It flutters in the wind like a dark leaf, disappearing into the snow below.

  
  



	4. Death To Birth

Another three weeks pass by and the album is nearly done. They’re just finishing up production, and fixing minor imperfections. Eleven songs, forty-nine minutes. Ten of which have something to do with Brian, maybe all eleven actually, and it’s pretty apparent to everyone who’s worked on the record. The band, the producers, the recording engineer's, probably the people from the record label if they care, Jack, and of course; 

“This song makes me so uncomfortable.” Malcolm says, making a disgusted face. 

“What?” Curt asks. “Why?” 

“It’s obviously about your sex life with Brian. It’s lyrically exactly like ‘I Feel You’ which you literally released while you were together. You are a very transparent man, Mr. Wild.” 

“Oh.” He just says, staring at the ground. He feels embarrassed. 

“But,” Malcolm sighs. “I’m not saying it’s bad. I just hate it, knowing what it’s about. It’s well written, and I really love the synth on it.”  

Curt smiles a little at this, because as much as he hates to admit it, Malcolm’s approval means something to him. 

“I have to warn you though, it’s  _ obvious.  _ You’ve got to decide if you’re willing to deal with the consequences.” 

He swallows, and rips a hand through his hair. He’s right. 

“Either way, I’m not singing the fucking ‘Over and over’ parts, you couldn’t pay me enough. That’s disgusting.” 

Curt laughs, and feels a bit better about this whole thing.  

And so Heaven goes on the album. 

* * *

Maybe two weeks after the release of _ Dream On,  _ Curt Wild’s first record in three years, comes a whirlwind of success. 

There had been some debate about the name. 

“Isn’t that kind of stupid?” Malcolm had asked. “It sounds kind of cheesy to me.” 

“I think it’s a step up from Danger Zone.” Jack added. 

“I like strong title tracks. It’s a strong song. It fits the theme of the album.” Curt had said, leaving no room for argument. 

What he meant, was that he fit what the album meant to him, where it had come from, and it came from his dreams. From restless nights of processing and remembering and being followed by the past. 

Now, Curt isn’t sure what to make of this. He has two songs playing on the radio daily. Heaven, being one of them, to Malcolm’s dismay. 

It seems to him now that it was the right time to break all of this down, and to get it out of his system. 

The record is getting glowing reviews as a whole. He’s being asked by papers, magazines and shows to come in for interviews. 

The problem is, Curt doesn’t know what to tell them, and he’d been warned, but he didn’t care. 

The music was the important thing, not his reputation. Even so, he has to answer to someone, anyone. 

Jack and Malcolm agree to come with him. 

It’s starting to worry him just how much he relies on the both of them, and how much he’d confided in Malcolm. He supposes the brutal honesty and sarcasm can be comforting, if you’re in the mood for it. 

In the car on the way to the _ Kerrang Magazine  _ Seattle headquarters, Curt can’t help but think about Berlin. 

How he’d had the funds to fly there, but nothing more. How he’d known no one, had no idea where he was going, and had spent the night in an alley wrapped in his leather trench coat, smoking and crying at everything that had transpired and where it had landed him. How he’d felt that every good thing he’d ever known had destroyed him. 

That Curt had almost gotten himself killed. Nearly OD’d so many times. Finally pulled himself out of it, thanks to Jack, mainly, and a lot of weed and being shut in a cabin in the North woods of Michigan. 

Now, here he was. A sensation all over again, but this time, on his own. 

Yet, didn’t he still owe some part of this to Brian? At least, the Brian he’d known. For the experience. For the feelings. For the entirely dramatic and ridiculous and drug-drenched life they’d lived. 

It was a disaster, but not one he wants to forget. 

When they get to the office, the three of them are led into a dimly lit room with a giant navy corduroy couch facing a single matching armchair. 

They sit. Curt in the middle. Jack, on his left, gingerly crossing his legs, wearing tan suede trousers and an elegant patterned button down, violet eyeliner, and a soft, if a bit attached expression. Malcolm is wearing all black, making the blue of his eyes startling, and is looking inpatient. Curt is in dark wash jeans, his jacket as usual, He’s fidgeting. 

They’re being recorded. He’s very glad he has them with. Each time they ask him a question, and he feels unsure of what to say or feels like he can’t answer, Jack and Malcolm steer the conversation in a more comfortable direction with vague explanation and big sweeping generalizations. 

It’s an exhausting experience. He’s terrified that everyone  _ knows.  _ But it’s over soon enough.

They drop Curt off at his apartment afterwards. It’s early afternoon. He puts an early Tom Waits record on the turntable with the volume low, falls into his bed, and drifts into a dreamless sleep. 

  
  



	5. Your Fear Is As Old As The World

Seeing his name in the papers is always frightening for him. Ever since the  _ SLADE COCAINE  _ bust he’d been horrified every time Brian Slade came back up, always in a more unflattering light than before. It had been comforting when he became just a memory, a figment of the past that was occasionally commented on each time the anniversary of his grand stunt rolled around. Still though, the feeling of his multiple shames being broadcast all over England had never left him, occasionally cropping up in strange, surreal nightmares.

Even now, reading the buzz surrounding his latest play over coffee, it’s difficult to keep swallowing. He is not Brian Slade anymore:he is the dignified writer/director T. Brian Stoningham, who’s newest work will be debuting two weeks from now. Will it be as grand a tribute to Wilde as  _ A Tragedy In One Act _ and  _ The Rocket? _

He smiles like a fat cat.  _ ‘Grand tribute to Wilde’- Yes, I suppose they are. _

Despite his anxieties, he’s disappointed with the size of the article: so small, so insignificant. He’s worked for two years on this play and it’s barely a footnote. It’s the kind of thing people will only read if they’re looking for it, that only a small knot of theatre people will see. Of course, he won’t make the front page of anything, but he never counted successes unless they were roaring…

 

Brian flings the paper away, bored with it. The diner he’s lounging in tonight is terribly silent, the only other patrons being a tired older man and a quiet young woman, who is reading in a back booth.  It’s a crummy, tiled place, but it’s never obnoxious. The only sound is the radio, quiet and unsure in the dank air.

_ And next up, a bit of a blast from the past. A song off of shock rocker Curt Wild’s newest record, Dream On. This is ‘Heaven’! _

 

“Excuse me?”

 

All eyes turn to him, brows furrowed.

Brian freezes, his fingernails stabbing into his palms until his hands go numb: The sensation spreads up his arms until it encases him. The message of the song seems to bowl into the diner, grotesque with how obvious it is. Nobody moves an inch, or even acknowledges what they’re hearing. The sound is thin and tinny, but it doesn’t matter. It’s all he can hear.

“Need something?” The cashier asks, as Brian’s eyes have fixed on her.

“No, thank you. My apologies.”

The general attention is turned away from him, and it’s as if a spotlight had been shining on his head.

The color rises in Brian’s face, beyond his control, as he listens. He can’t tell what he’s feeling. Some horrible swirl of excitement and anxiety that twists his stomach and makes his mouth taste sour. He shreds a napkin in his hands, staring straight ahead.

_ This can’t be about what you think it’s about. This is not about what you think it’s about. _

He glances at himself in the dark window and finds that he’s turned pink, and his eyes are blazing, as though he were caught doing something wrong. It’s absurd. He’s thirty-seven years old, for God’s sake.

_ I haven’t done anything, _ he thinks, savagely,  _ He’s the one who wrote it. _

He could almost believe it wasn’t about him. He could almost blame his panic on his arrogance.

If  _ only _ it didn’t sound so much like  _ I Feel You _ , he could simply drag himself home and suffer.

 

Brian rises as the last bars dissipate and pays for his coffee in a daze. The night is cold, and the clouds are whisking over the moon- the shop will be closed soon, and then he’ll be too late. He’ll have to lie in agony until morning, wondering. He’ll wake up in his white apartment with the cat looking at him, and a day of rehearsals staring him in the face. He’ll try to control himself, and wind up scanning the radio stations, pretending he’s not doing what he’s doing.

He just has to hear the record. Once he hears it he can put it away and be done with it.

Obviously, he deserves the closer of  _ hearing _ the damn thing just as much as Curt deserves the closure of writing it.

 

The street outside is oddly busy: his jacket shudders in the wind. Cars race by him, throwing up sludge and snow. He knows he should be freezing, but he doesn’t: the flush is still high on his cheeks, still pink in his ears.

 

“Is this all?” The bored teenager behind the counter is at the end of his shift.

“Yes.”

“That’s a pretty good record. I think it’s the best he’s done since  _ Danger Zone. _ ”

“I wouldn’t know.”

He’s given a disappointed look, as though he could have been interesting for five seconds if only he’d tried a little harder.

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

 

                                                                                                * *   *

_ Sometimes I slide away _

_ Silently _

_ I slowly lose myself _

_ Over and over… _

 

Brian is on his back, eyes closed. Freezing rain occasionally lashes against his exposed stomach and shoulders, burning him. His bedroom windows are thrown wide, and though the snow has stopped the rain is heavy and needle-like. His soaked curtains whip back and forth. The light flickers. Curt’s music has been wrapped around him for hours, his lyrics pressing into Brian’s brain until he can no longer understand them. Things only he would know. Things only he would say. There is no closure in this: only more dark, twisting, forgotten places that he had never wanted to visit again. Curt’s voice is not bitter, merely sincere. It’s still alive with whatever it was that made him so compelling, only that aspect is calmer, stronger.

Brian is so fucking wasted.

He restarts the record, and then rolls over, watching the rain fall.

  
  



	6. Midnight Man

In the dazzling whirlwind that comes with any musical success, Curt panics. He grows increasingly paranoid with what people may be saying about him. Not even the record, not the songs themselves, or how good they are, but Curt, as a person. 

Back when he was a junkie, people spoke of all manner of horrible and embarrassing things he had done while high off his ass. Some of them were harmless, most of them weren’t. Back then he’d just shoot up and forget he cared, now it wasn’t so easy. Anytime there’s any real recognition, he’s filled with a deep set anxiety that leads to a string of avoidant impulses. There’s the buzzing though, still. The tingling warm feeling that comes from being the center of attention. He wants to reach for it, clutch it and always bathe in the glow, but his fears yank him backwards and deeper into the dark. He could psychoanalyze himself about it for years if no one stopped him. Curt can think himself into oblivion. 

Sometimes Curt doesn’t realize he’s doing all that thinking out loud. 

“Let’s not do that,” Jack’s voice breaks him out of his trance, his cool, soft hand taking his is a shock to his system. “That’s a bad idea.” 

The scene around him rushes in.  They’re at a party, some trashy warehouse-esk venue, still not underground enough for his taste, though Malcolm has been complaining about the place reminding him of the clubs he used to perform at with the Creatures in the early days. The light is dim and tinted blue, it’s crowded, and people flit in and out of view, dissipating into shadows.

People that Curt has never met have been coming up to him all evening, clapping him on the back and congratulating him on his success. Some have offered him demos to listen to. Some even ask for autographs, and he wonders how those kids got in. Finally someone passes him a pipe and he smokes an entire bowl, and he instantly feels a bit better. 

There’s music playing, hard and low, a raspy voice growling velvet, and the sound is moving in waves. He closes his eyes and tilts back his head. Jack is still holding his hand, and Curt is squeezing it tightly. He figures he must know how these kind of functions make him feel: cloudy, unreal, removed. He’s grateful that Jack is a good enough friend to offer himself up as an anchor, while his boyfriend is off gallivanting around fucking with people and swallowing pills. (Arguably what Malcolm O’Hara does best) 

Some college girl is sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, diagonal from him. She’s going to UW of course, for  _ Journalism,  _ and has probably the most jarring shrill voice Curt has ever heard. 

She’s chatting him up about her crazy days as a wild teen and how she’d always thought he was a genius and blah-blah-blah she can’t believe she’s here talking with him now. He wonders for the second time who let these kids into the club. 

Or maybe the question is, who let Curt Wild and his band into the club? Why had they even come here? 

Where were they, even? Seattle still, if there are UW students there. Was it Malcolm who demanded they go out and celebrate? He thinks that’s it. 

Yeah, that’s it. He’d been all ‘ _ Curtis this is a big success for you we have to go get shitfaced and celebrate somewhere’  _ and Jack had sanctioned it on the grounds of having a good time. 

Suddenly, there he is in front of Curt. Wide black lined blue eyes, dark hair wild. He’s dragging someone behind him, and then he pulls her into view. 

“Look who I found, boys!” He says, and he’s obviously fucked up on all manner of things. “What a blast from the past!” 

And there she is, blonde waves just past her shoulders, elegant black sweater, calculating expression, her eyes land on Curt. She’s holding a glass of scotch in the same hand as her cigarette, it’s resting between two ringed fingers, her nails are unpainted. She smiles wryly. 

“Mandy?” 

“Hello,” She says. “It’s been a long time Mr. Wild.” 

Her words are slurred, and she’s obviously thrown back quite a few, but she seems more controlled and collected than she ever was when Curt had known her. She sits down in a folding chair across from where he is on the battered old couch with Jack. Malcolm looms ominously on the arm of it. 

“You look good.” Curt says, because she does. She’s grown up nicely. 

“I know,” Mandy drawls, taking a drag and then setting her glass on the floor. “You haven’t changed a bit.” 

He’s not sure if that’s meant as a insult or not. 

“What’re you doing in Seattle?” Jack asks, his voice sincere and curious. 

“Oh, just visiting a friend in Olympia. She’s this _ lovely  _ irish girl who moved to the states only a few years ago. Her accent is so thick I can scarcely understand her most of the time, but let me tell you, it  _ really _ doesn’t matter. I’m having a wonderful time really, just came to the city tonight for some excitement. She’s floating around here somewhere.” 

Jack nods and smiles politely, Malcolm moves over to sit in his lap, press his face into his neck and giggle. 

She dazzles them with stories and witty remarks for a while well Curt half listens and half spaces out, both because he’s dissociating and because he’s baked. 

He hasn’t talked to Mandy in at least five years. They’d been friendly since he and Brian had broken up, and had been there for each other throughout all the muck and mire. 

When Curt moved to Seattle originally he’d still been in touch with her, but then came 1980, the year of his big breakdown, and his temporary move back to Michigan, where he stayed in a cabin in Menominee and taken a lot of adderall and filled up three notebooks with material. It was already a ghost town and he isolated himself completely, telling no one where he was going. 

When he came back to civilization, all of his friends were pretty pissed off at him. He’d just never thought to call Mandy again. 

What frightened him was the timing. And with her came memories of Brian. 

“So Curt,” She was addressing him now, haughty and amused. “This record of yours has been quite a hit, huh?” 

“Yeah.” He doesn’t meet her eyes. He already knows that she has all the information. That she knows exactly who the bulk of it is about. 

“I must say you’ve grown a lot as a writer, really, it’s some brilliant stuff.” 

Curt looks up at her then, surprised by the kind words. She seems sincere. 

“Really?” 

“Oh completely, truly I really enjoyed most of it. I must say I didn’t appreciate the jab at me in that one song...oh, what was it called- midnight something.” 

He feels himself flush with embarrassment. 

“Midnight man.” Jack gives it to her. 

“That’s the one.”

“It wasn’t a jab,” He chokes out. “Just an observation.” 

“Oh, I think it was definitely a jab at how desperate I was back then, and how pathetically enthralled I was with  _ Mr. Slade.  _ But I’m not offended, not really, it _ is _ the truth.” 

Curt is quiet. Brian has been mentioned now. 

“It’s funny, Curt, because not too long ago I talked to this journalist in London about Brian. Sweet, darling boy. Wanted to know if I knew anything about where he is today. I didn’t tell him, of course. I may have my issues with the man but I don’t hate him enough to bring him back out into the light when he’s done such a fine job of shutting himself away.” 

So Mandy was the one who’d given his home phone to that kid. His thoughts can only stay focused on that for a moment, though, because it sounds like she knows where Brian is. 

“Anyway, it’s funny because shortly after that, out comes your record. So much Brian Slade related media in a small period of time.” 

She’s talking too loud. She’s just spilling out the story, and while yes he willingly put out everything in that record, he doesn’t need everyone to know. He doesn’t want that. He’s anxious now. He doesn’t want to sit here anymore. 

He rips himself from Jack’s hold and moves to get up. 

“I don’t want to listen to this, I’m going ho-” 

“He’s in Paris, if you’re curious at all. Writing plays.” 

Curt stops. His head goes blank. 

“ _ That’s _ so funny, Mandy!” Malcolm says. “We’re going there on tour!”  

  
  



	7. Closer To The Golden Dawn

He knows about it, of course. He hears it mentioned during a break by Annette and Yasmina, both of whom have tickets. He wouldn’t have thought them to be the kind of people interested in Curt Wild: two young, bookish girls who never have very much to say to anyone except each other. But there it is: a European tour. A few nights spent in Paris. Curt, Jack, and Malcolm- God, ten years could be ten minutes for all that’s changed.

That night, Brian heads back to the liquor store.

 

The theatre is a dull, drab place after a week of heavy drinking and minimal eating: a gaudy, useless affair. He feels hated, he  _ is  _ hated, because he’s fucking useless. He had so loved it when he first came here, the make believe of it all: The way everything always came together, no matter how awful or tiring it was to get it on its feet. Never before in his life had he liked hard work, but this, he’d felt, was worth it. He’d loved the energy of the place, the life contained within. He’d loved how there was always excitement bubbling in the atmosphere, even when everyone was dead on their feet. That kind of feeling bred creativity, and was almost entirely responsible for his last two works.

He’d been tricked, as he was always tricked, into thinking he’d finally found what he was meant to do.

 

That notion seems silly and childish now as he sits on the edge of the stage, sipping a bottle of water and staring stupidly at the scuffed floor beneath him. The lights are too bright, the voices are too loud. He’d called a break because he just couldn’t stand the monotony of the script anymore.

He knows they’re talking about him, his actors. Saying he’s gone off the deep end, finally, after years of tottering on the edge of it. What a prick he is to fall apart two weeks before opening night.

_ How easy it would be to throw myself into the pit. They’d all have a story to take home. _

 

He feels unsettled, dried out, anxious. Normally he loved this point in the process, the final weeks of flurried preparation before it was sink or swim. Now it’s all too close, too demanding. He can’t even remember why he’s here anymore, what it’s supposed to mean. His mother had called him yesterday to inform him that his father had passed, and that Brian, if he could somehow manage it, should come home for the funeral. She’d spoken to the machine instead of him, though he’d been home to answer.

When he went back tonight, he’d have to phone.

 

“Mr. Stoningham?”

Brian looks up, blinks. It’s Yasmina. She looks tired and perturbed. This is the most she’s ever said to him- she’s flustered, and is speaking in tense, broken English, as she always did when she addressed him.

“More today, or? Going home?”

They’d barely been here four hours, but the idea of continuing is repulsive to him. Everyone is loitering, waiting for his word.

“I think we’ll end it here,” He says, his voice sounding much stronger than he is, booming through the theatre,

“There’s not much else to do.”

It’s a bold-faced lie, but they all accept it with a murmur and a few disappointed glances. Feet shuffle, belongings are collected, a gradual hum of voices rises around him. He hauls himself up, and manages to smile at Yasmina.

“See you tomorrow.”

She nods, and drifts away.

 

* * *

 

 

Outside, it’s a bitter twenty-two degrees. The snow clouds are returning: low, gray, and pendulous on the horizon. Already, they’re threatening the thin, waning moon that hangs so high and frail in the darkening sky. The sidewalks are as barren as they can be in Paris. Everyone is hiding from the approaching blizzard, running from the icy wind, everyone but him. Brian has been walking for at least an hour now, in a directionless, desperate sort of way, pretending that he has things he needs to do before he goes home. It makes him afraid to even think of going back. He can’t stand the idea of seeing the red light blinking on his answering machine. After he calls her he’ll have to walk into his bedroom, and see Curt’s record sitting on his dresser. Suppose he and his mother have a row? Or that he has another endless night without sleep?

No, it’s better to keep walking. The world does not exist beyond these streets, no responsibilities, nothing to confront. There is nothing beyond the blurred lights of traffic, beyond the darkened, red faces of the people who pass him.

He catches his reflection in a shop window: his thin, white face, expressionless but for the frenzied look that’s come into his eyes. His long black coat makes it seem like he’s nothing but a head, bobbing bodiless in the dark.

 

The slam of a door catches his attention. He realizes, dimly, that he knows exactly where he is. He’s right outside the diner, not ten feet away. The sign, red and green, twinkles cheerfully at him through the darkness. He’s disappointed: He’d hoped to end up miles and miles away from here. He’s just been going in a mad, stumbling circle.

He turns back to his reflection and touches his frozen cheek. He can’t feel a thing.

_ Perhaps it’s time to go inside, then. _

 

But something is off about this place tonight, something that isn’t just his hysterical mind. Peering through the glass door, he can see that the place is in a bit of a frenzy. Well, more of a frenzy than he’s ever seen it: The waiters are actually up and about, with high spots of color on their cheeks. A happy, jubilated buzzing is reverberating inside.

Brian glances over, amazed.

Curt, Jack, and Malcolm are the only people in the building. Jack has a quiet, tired smile on his face, as he’s currently busy with one of the starstruck waiters. His hair is still a deep magenta, and though he’s sitting in a dank diner with three teenagers as company he holds himself like the Queen. Brian can tell he’s speaking quite politely, and can imagine his calm, cool voice. Malcolm is in a giant black coat that seems to be made entirely of feathers. He’s tugging on Curt’s sleeve, with a teasing, stupid grin.

Curt is staring into space, saying nothing. He has not changed. He looks tired, rough- He remembers that he always got like that after touring for a while, distant and irritable. The thought comes to him impersonally, as though it were something someone had told him instead of a fact he knew himself.

Curt smiles at something Jack says to him, finally coming back from wherever he’d been.

Brian knows he should run. Any minute now someone will notice the mute idiot standing in the doorway. He finds that he’s like one in a dream, that his body isn’t under his control.

A wild, stupid impulse to yank the door open and blunder inside seizes him, and drives a harsh, feverish bark of laughter from his lips.

 

They all look at him then, at exactly the same moment. For one solitary second, it seems that they don’t recognize him. Jack blinks, Malcolm frowns, and Curt squints at him belligerently.

And then, in the order they’d looked, recognition creeps onto their faces. It’s the first time in his life Brian has seen Jack surprised. Curt’s mouth falls open, and he says something Brian is glad he can’t hear.

It’s when Malcolm screams, “Oh my  _ God, is it?!”  _ That he grasps the reality of the situation.

 

Brian turns, not wanting to run but breaking into a trot anyway, the wind whipping at his face and neck and tearing at his throat. Confusion and terror have got him now, and a desperate hatred for God, or whoever had made it so Curt had to be there tonight. Tomorrow he’ll feel stupid for literally running away from them all, but he can’t face them now. They’ve fully burst the bubble he’s built for himself, the little world that was supposed to protect him from the one he really lived in.

He fancies he hears the door open, but nothing will make him look back now.

He turns the corner, and knows the diner is out of sight.

  
  
  
  
  



	8. Bottled Light From Hotels

The tour is making this record feel like a big fucking mistake. 

Curt is jetlagged 24/7, having a hell of a time even keeping himself conscious enough to breathe, and is pretty fucking pissed off in general. Well, in general, yes, but also specifically at Mandy, for existing, like it’s somehow her fault they’re touring where Brian lives, like if maybe she hadn’t given them that information it wouldn’t be happening. And at Malcolm, for being an asshole about it, for consistently poking fun at him and rubbing it in his face, and at Jack, for still  _ making them go.  _

It had been difficult to psych himself up even for the last three shows. He wonders if people like that though, him all strung out looking like he’s gonna collapse. Everybody loves bands more when they’re fucked up on heroin and all that shit. They haven’t seemed any less into the shows with the band being tired, as long as they still play the songs. 

Curt still puts his all into it though, still throws himself around through the heavy songs. He still feels it all. It makes for a very draining afterward, but it wouldn’t feel worth it if he didn’t. 

The three of them are at a small diner obviously kept afloat by tourists more than regulars, the kind of place that’s dead in the off season. They’d chosen it based on its proximity to the hotel. 

When they’d started the tour, in London, everyone still wanted to try new things and go out and shit, but by this point Curt could not make himself go into any place fancy. All he wanted was some fucking coffee, and the diner shit was better than the expensive shit. 

They’re having what feels like the same fucking conversation for the hundredth time over a late breakfast-dinner, the only difference is now Malcolm is being a bitch over cheap crepes instead of cheap pancakes. 

Jack must realize he’s spacing out, because he offers his same line:

“You just have to make it to Sunday, after the show no one will expect anything from you, and we can fly you home and you can relax for as long as you like.” 

Curt gives him a tired smile, and tries to make it sincere, but he isn’t sure he succeeds. 

His constant attempts at comfort, though he appreciates the effort, do nothing but annoy him. Because it’s not Sunday, it’s Friday, and even then;

If it was just the exhaustion, the irritation, the constant sensory overload and inability to make his eyes focus on anything, he’d be alright. 

But it isn’t. 

_ It’s a big city. It’s three nights. There’s no way you’ll see him, the possibility is too low. It’s a big city. It’s three nights. There’s no way you’ll see him, the possibility is too low. It’s a big city. It’s three nights. There’s no way you’ll see him, the possibility is too low.  _

That mantra that been what kept Curt sane on the way to France, in the hotel, on stage. That, and a lot of pot, of course. He’d had to take deep breaths, dig his nails into is wrist, hit himself in the face sometimes just to snap himself out of his own head. 

And then his fears are proven to be justified. 

There’s a man, standing in the door of the restaurant, long black coat, sandy blonde hair, looking to be about their age. He’s staring straight at them. 

Curt doesn’t realize until he registers the eyes. _ That  _ blue. 

It’s him. 

And suddenly it’s apparent that Malcolm has recognized him too because he’s squawking like some sort of goth tropical bird and making a whole scene. 

He’s just staring. He can’t move. He’s standing right there and Curt’s brain won’t catch up. 

“Brian?”

And as soon as he’s appeared, he’s gone again, the door swinging behind him. 

Curt unfreezes a moment too late. He’s rushing to the door, pulling it open, but there’s nothing more than a stir of movement in the dark. 

He just stands there, for a long time. Feeling what, he doesn’t know. Like he’s floating in space, like he’s not there. Like he’s just dreaming again. 

Jack comes up behind him, gently takes him by the hand, and pulls him out into the street. 

They head back to the hotel.

 

* * *

In the morning, after not getting any sleep, Curt is sitting on the balcony that goes out from their room. 

He’s smoking from his third pack in the last twelve hours, and not thinking about much of anything. Just staring at the frozen gray skyline. 

He hears the sliding glass door open, and footsteps. He doesn’t move. 

It’s Malcolm. Curt really doesn’t want to talk to him. 

“I know you’re busy being very boring and sad,” He says. “But I have something that might interest you.” 

He kneels down to his level, shows him a newspaper, and points to an article. 

“Mandy was right. He is writing plays, and  _ directing.  _ Tonight’s the opening.”

_ T. Brian Stoningham. _

That’s him, it couldn’t be anyone else. Not with what it says about Oscar fucking Wilde. 

That thought makes Curt self consciously finger the green crystal pin he’d had fastened to his jacket for over a decade. 

He has to see the play. 

  
  



	9. Always Crashing In The Same Car

He’s not sure what pulls him out of it, what gives him tunnel vision about the whole thing. Maybe the backbone he’s been lacking all his life finally rears within him. Maybe he’s just tired of Curt Wild destroying his sanity over and over again. Maybe he just won’t let anything spoil opening night. Whatever it is, something snaps, and the next morning he wakes up with a hard knot of resolve in his stomach. He pulls himself out of bed, and dials his mother.

“Thomas? Is that you?”

“Yes, mum. Good morning.”

“What a surprise. I suppose this is my Christmas present?”

He stares out the window at the pale, dead sky, still caught in the midst of a blizzard. The little dig, which would usually stick under his skin like a thorn, doesn’t affect him. It seems that every feeling he has is being shoved behind a door, for him to open and examine later.

“I called to tell you I’ll be back for the funeral.”

“Oh! Oh…” She sounds awkward, shocked, and he hears the clink of her spoon against her tea cup.

There is a long, awkward period of silence.

“Well, I just wanted you to know I plan on coming back.”

“Where do you plan to stay?”

He hadn’t quite prepared for this question, but his answer is cool, natural.

“A hotel, I suppose. I can only spare a few days.”

“You know you can stay with me. John is coming home.”

Stuck in his mother’s house with his older brother: What a wonderful weekend that would be.

“I believe a hotel would be best,” He murmurs,

“I should be going. Goodbye, love you.”

“Yes, Thomas. Goodbye.”

 

He hangs up, and leans tiredly against the wall behind him. Fiona, his cat, butts against his knee.

He leans down, and pets her absently. The night before keeps coming at him in little fragments: the red sheen of Jack’s hair, the window-shaking volume of Malcolm’s voice. Curt’s face, frozen with disbelief- but not angry, not angry at all.

The same numbing mechanism as before kicks in, and he finds it’s easy to disregard last night, easy to look upon it like a bad nightmare. It’s something to be shaken by, of course, but nothing of substance or value.

He straightens up and pours his coffee, turning once again to stare at the dead gray sky. He is not sacrificing the well-being of this play just because of some bad memories.  Memories that will be flying out of his life again in less than forty-eight hours, hopefully for another ten years.

 

* * *

 

 

That day Brian is a machine. Not a particularly well-oiled machine, but a machine nonetheless. He’s more forgetful than usual: scattering coffee cups, papers, and pens around the vicinity at random, making glaring mistakes with his French, forgetting names and dates. But he’s here, and he’s working, and through it all he has the soothing sense that he’s really made something good. Everyone seems to pick up on his steady, desperate energy. It’s a tight rehearsal, with few breaks and no time wasted. They work grimly, diligently, like soldiers before a deciding battle.  He feels a sudden affinity for them all, and humbleness at how hard they’re working on something he cares so deeply about. Everyone rushes past him in colorful streams, eyes set ahead, hands always busy with a dress or a ragged script. The hours don’t fly by, but they don’t drag as they did yesterday. More than once he finds himself completely happy and absorbed in his work, another little ant in the whirring colony.

 

At one point the lights go down and he’s sitting in the audience, testing the volume of the microphones one last time. He’s tired. They’re all tired. Sweat is clinging to his brow, and he’s half asleep on his hand.

Then the music swells, and then his characters stumble on stage, in the midst of an argument about their arranged marriage. The light sparkles off the jewels around Lady Elaine’s neck, and catches in the golden hair of Lord Adrian. Their movements are well-blocked, their tones convincing. When the glass vase is smashed at the end of the first act he actually jumps, and then laughs at the bored, unimpressed expression on Lord Adrian’s face.

It’s perfect, it’s beautiful. None of it is stiff, as he had been afraid of, and none of it has suffered from how badly he’s been doing.

Brian grins like a small child, so elated he can barely sit still to watch the rest of it.

 

At the end, after the climax(which had seemed particularly gut-wrenching to him today) he leaps to his feet and gives them a standing ovation.

“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!”

Everyone beams at him, and the gaiety that had been missing all day arrives in full force.

They have created a good show, and they are proud.

 

* * *

 

 

Backstage is the usual disaster. The calm veneer that has been straining itself all day is gone, but he sees that as more of a relief than anything else. Now if he’s sick, or pulls out all his hair, he will only be joining the ranks.

People whisk by him, so fast he sometimes can’t tell if they’re real or just light flashing across his eyes. They are not graceful, as they had been earlier: brushing by in an orderly way, sure of their destination. Now they’re loud and hurried, now they have come out of themselves completely. Noise is all around him: feet clattering on the steps, across the stage, winding downstairs to the dressing rooms and up through the set.

“Monsieur Stoningham-?”

“Brian-?”

“Monsieur-?”

Faces, bright-eyed and sweaty, appear and disappear as he stumbles from place to place. He hears himself answering their questions with the commanding, decisive tone reserved especially for this night.

“I’m not the head of the costume department, but I say that’s a fine substitute.”

“Remember, we talked about throwing your voice? You’ll be fine.”

“I am quite certain your slippers can withstand the glass shards- I made sure to tell Mrs. Bernard about that hazard.”

Though most everyone has been through this before (none of them, excepting Yasmina and Annette, are

novices) they all seem to be losing it. French profanity is heavy in the air. At one point, Lady Elaine’s dress loses a sleeve. At one point, they lose Lady Elaine, as Estelle Thomas is notoriously touchy.

Yasmina and Annette are both sick, twice each, and wear the expressions of trapped mice. None of his attempts to comfort them do much good, so he can only hope they hold it together on stage.

After an argument with Estelle, Gabriel lays face-down on the floor for five solid minutes before Brian can jostle him to his feet.

He’d forgotten how much he loves opening night.

 

Finally, it’s curtain call. Brian gives a sort of spirit-lifting speech, mainly for the benefit of Yasmina and Annette, and then they are loosed from his grasp. He will have no more control over any of them until they’re offstage: His lungs tighten. The booming voice over the loudspeaker that announces the play, the sponsors, and his name seems to shake the very floor he stands on.

Then, silence.

The curtain rises, heavy, dusty red velvet rolling to the ceiling, and the music blasts throughout the house.

It’s very full. It is a sea of hazy, uncertain faces, rising up above the stage like a wave.

The lights are blinding. The voices of Gabriel and Estelle are loud and sure- he sees them silhouetted against the massive dark audience, shining and strong, giving no sign of their nerves.

The house erupts with laughter, and Brian almost sinks to his knees with relief. He can see the front row: their eyes gleaming, their faces rapt. One young woman shakes her friend, they point and grin, bursting into laughter again. He could watch forever.

Soon, he’s informed by a stagehand that he needs to come away. There are other matters to attend to.

  
  



	10. All Apologies

Curt feels stupid buying his ticket. He’s sure the cashier at the box office just  _ knows.  _ Knows the whole story, about the record, and how everything happened. She’s brunette, non-descript, sort of youngish, looking frazzled and tired. In reality, she probably doesn’t care and just wants her shift to be over- Curt remembers what working minimum wage was like back in Ann Arbor. He’s aware of this, but it doesn’t stop the paranoia and the shame. 

He’s terrified of the impending possibility of confrontation. Always hated it. Ever since he’d stopped doing heroin he’d been awful at dealing with it. Often times he’d just go away, disappear out of his body and his eyes wouldn’t focus when the situation arose. A therapist, who he’d only seen for a month, had told him this was on account of his trauma, i.e. what had happened to him when he was living at home as a kid and the trip to the psychiatric hospital afterward. The funny is, knowing the reason for things doesn’t actually make them any easier to deal with. That’s why therapy is pointless to him. 

He’s half hoping Brian won’t see him, won't even know he’s there. He’s hoping  _ nobody _ will see him. But Curt also knows he can’t let the chance slip through his fingers,and that if he can talk to him, if he can get a hold on him, or maybe even just see him again that maybe things will feel resolved. Because making this record hasn’t put it in a nice little box in the back of his head. If anything, the dreams, the songs, they’d all just had his head swimming with memories, all burning, growing stronger and brighter the longer he dwelled on them. And every show he’s reminded of this, and every show he starts crying in the middle of  _ I Need You  _ and wonders why he wrote such a depressing, pathetic song about the fake assassination for a record he’s released in fucking 1985. It’s not the 70s, and it’s not even the post-Maxwell Demon days anymore. It’s been years and years. Thinking of how Brian must see him, pathetic and obsessed, dwelling on the past, makes him nauseous. He quickly turns his thoughts away. 

If he’s gonna do this shit, he’s got to get himself together. It’s a good thing he walked to the theater on impulse because they’ve nearly sold out. What would he have done then? If he wouldn’t have had the chance? 

Curt absently thanks the cashier and slips the ticket into the pocket of his jeans. He heads back to the hotel, to do what with himself now, he doesn’t know- wait for the night to come, he supposes.

 

* * *

He waits as long as he possibly can before going inside. His heart feels like it’s going to burst it’s way out of his ribcage. He imagines a bloody mess on the pavement in a bit too much detail and figures he should probably go in already. 

He hands the attendant his ticket. She rips off the serrated part and hands it back to him without even sparing a glance at him. 

There’s assigned seating of course, it’s a fancy production, but Curt doesn’t do that kinda thing. He sits in the furthest row from the stage in the corner, closest to the door. There’s no way he’s getting trapped in the middle of this. 

The weight of his leather jacket is a small comfort, but not enough to keep him grounded. He picks at his fingers, scratching off scabs and digging his nails into newly healed skin. He’s so nervous, he’s so scared, he wonders why he ever thought this would be a good idea. He keeps his eyes on his surplus store combat boots. 

This is Brian’s new life and it’s not Curt’s place to barge back into it this way. He knows that and he has since he’d found out he was living in Paris. 

The play begins, he looks up at the stage, and there’s no getting out of this now. 

The atmosphere, the costumes, the set up in just the opening is so dramatically elegant and so very Brian that he has to smile a bit. He remembers late night rants, sometimes tearful, about the injustice of Oscar Wilde’s trial and incarceration. He thinks of the newspaper mention and imagines the Brian he knew, in the old days, reacting to something like that. 

He twists the pin on the lapel of his jacket. Twisting it, tightening and loosening, and runs his fingers over the smooth dimensions of the green jewel. 

Curt is transfixed. Impressed but certainly not surprised. Every line is purposeful, laced with a meaning beyond the surface. Brian was a genius, always had been. Curt wished he’d had the chance to read more of his writing when they were together. The musician in him was only a small piece, he was an artist in every sense it seemed, and while Curt had always admired him for that fact, he didn’t think he’d ever had the chance to really experience it this way. 

Then movement in the corner near the stage door distracts him. 

Fuck. It’s Brian. 

He’s far enough away that Curt can almost believe he’s mistaken, but not quite. He’s exactly the same man who’d been standing in the doorway of the diner, only now he’s got a suit and a rose pinned to his jacket. There’s someone at his shoulder, whispering to him, but he can tell by the expression on his face that Brian isn’t listening.  _ Shit. _ __   
His eyes are wide, dazed. If he’s visible to Curt he must be visible to everyone else, but he still hasn’t moved from the stagedoor. Something happens: a vase smashes. Uproarious laughter. Applause.    
He’d only glanced away for a second, but when he looks back, Brian has disappeared. 

Curt realizes then that he may not have any other options now. He gets up before he can think too hard about it. Quietly, and carefully he makes his way towards the door he’d seen him in front of seconds before.    
                                       * * *   
His boots are too loud in the stairwell, providing a low drone beneath the general chaos. It’s much louder than Curt would have thought: a mind-numbing buzz that disorients him, making it even harder to try and figure out where he’s going. Everyone is in such a rush that he seems to register as more of a walking obstacle than a human being, which is comforting, though he’s not sure how he’s supposed to find Brian if no one will even look at him.   
He feels like if he keeps going down he’ll find a door with a placard reading   
BRIAN SLADE in big black letters. It probably won’t be that easy now.

“Excuse me, sir?” A sharp American accent breaks through the buzzing, sounding crass and strange against the tumult of French. It’s an older man wearing a white dress shirt, which he has sweat through completely.   
“Yeah?”   
“Are you authorized to be here?”   
Curt snorts, but it’s hidden by the clamor. One of the actresses comes up the steps, wearing wide, lacy blue skirts and a violent slash of red lipstick.   
“I  _ asked _ if you were authorized to be backstage?”   
“I’m a friend of the director. Thomas Stoningham?”   
His new friend looks incredulous, his large, weepy eyes set intently on Curt’s face. For a second, his chest feels too tight, and the noise of the stairwell closes in on him.    
_ He’s going to say something about it. He’s going to kick me out. _ _   
_ Curt sees himself back at the hotel, defeated, listening to Malcolm harp on and on about the love that could never be. Jack’s face, sympathetic but cool, silently imposing that it was for the best.  _ For the best, for the best, for the best- _ __   
“What’s your name?”   
“Uh-”   
“Mr. De Winter,” The weepy eyes lift from Curt’s face,    
“There are other things I need your help with. I gave you a list.”   
He freezes, but feels too warm just the same. He stares at stupidly at Mr. De Winter as Brian’s shoulder brushes his, just for a second.   
“Yes, Mr. Stoningham, I was just-”   
“I can handle this, I believe.”   
Brian glances at him, blue eyes hard and dark. His lips are set in a thin, stiff line. Panic creeps up the back of Curt’s spine with prickling fingers.   
“Yes, Mr. Stoningham.”   
Mr. De Winter shuffles back up the steps, glancing down at them every few seconds and connecting the dots. Curt watches him open the door he’d come through and disappear.   
  


Brian turns to him as the noise around them dulls: People are beginning to take interest in the scene, their eyes itchy and prying on Curt’s face.    
“Won’t you please accompany me back to my office?”

Curt says nothing. It’s easy to follow Brian down a long tiled fluorescent lit hallway. It’s much easier not to have to watch his expression, cold, dim, somewhere else. 

He had that ability. He could turn it all off so quickly. Curt never could. He has to feel giant and clumsy and out of place and  _ oh so pathetic.  _

Brian stops in the entrance of a doorway with an official looking name card, printed in dark bold font, mounted on the wall next to it.

_ T. Brian Stoningham - Director _

He waits for Curt to walk inside before he shuts the door firmly behind them.    
  
  
Brian is quiet, his hand lingering on the knob, his back turned to him. He’s breathing slowly, heavily: Sweat shines on the back of his neck.   
“So, you found me,” He says, very carefully, and Curt realizes that his eyes are fixed on the green brooch pinned to his jacket, “You found me. I’m sure Malcolm is very proud of himself.”   
“That’s not-” Curt says, but Brian cuts him off.    
“Please, let me speak.”   
He becomes aware that he’s taller, older, different. There are sad, heavy lines forming around his mouth, and the softness has gone out of his face. He’s become a white, dead skull. The way he looks at him is sickening, worse than the disappointment in the studio, or the hateful, bitter mask when Curt had finally left. At least then Brian had  _ cared  _ on some level, when they were fighting or breaking up. Now he just looks resentful, and exhausted.    
“I don’t care what you say about Brian Slade in the records, or in the papers,” He says,    
“I don’t care what you say about him to Jack and Malcolm. I don’t care what they say in England, America, Germany,  _ wherever _ you happen to go because I know he follows you, and I’m sorry for it. I know he follows everyone.”    
His eyes are still on the pin, their expression passing between disbelief and rage.   
Curt wants to rip it off, throw it across the room.    
“I don’t talk,” He spits, and a sort of flame comes into Brian’s eyes, wicked and twisting,   
“I don’t. I haven’t said one goddamn thing about you to the press.”   
He scoffs and looks away.   
“That’s the brilliant part, you don’t even have to.  _ They all know who you mean,  _ Curt. My dead grandmother must know who you mean.”   
He can’t argue that, so he’s quiet, grinding his teeth together. Shame is making it difficult to look at him. Brian is very close: his breath brushes Curt’s face. His eyes dart forever downward, towards the pin.   
“Why are you here?”   
“I don’t- Just to talk to you. I just want to fucking talk to you.”   
He moves silently across the room and takes a seat in a big, worn-looking leather chair, as though he were some government official ordering Curt’s assassination. He motions to the loveseat across from him, but he doesn’t move.   
“If you came to talk you might as well be comfortable.” He snaps, propping his cheek up on his palm. His actions seem completely ridiculous, almost insulting.    
Curt flushes, and shakes his head, leaning against the door.   
Brian glares, cold and impatient. “Suit yourself then.” 

He taps his fingers against the arm of the chair, making a soft, dull sound on the leather. It feels to Curt like ticking seconds on a clock, like Brian could order him out at any time, like he’s just waiting for the right moment. 

He crosses his arms over his chest and squeezes himself tightly. Where should he start? What’s the thing to say to have it make sense to him? 

“It wasn’t- I couldn’t, I mean-” He sighs sharply, fuming, feeling himself shaking so hard. 

_ Why are you here? _

He takes a deep breath, uncrosses his arms and looks down at his hands. He picks at his fingers, they’re disgusting, all full of bloody scabs. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be a big fucking thing. Really. I didn’t want to think this hard about any of it. I didn’t want to drudge any of this shit back up, for me, for you, anyone.”  

Brian’s stopped tapping, he’s eerily silent. 

“I know, fuck-I know this is all supposed to be behind us. It was such a different life. It just-it wouldn’t leave me alone, I didn’t- I mean-it just came back I don’t know what to tell you and-I don’t-” 

He has to stop and steady his voice.

“I don’t want you to think I hate you or I’m trying to spite you or get back at you. I feel really fucking pathetic and stupid, I don’t want to be an old crazy obsessive ex to you I just started writing and it turned out being good shit, none of it was planned-none of it. Coming here was just a fucking unfortunate coincidence and I didn’t find out you lived here until the tour was all booked, planned out, I didn’t- _ fuck,” _

His lungs have completely constricted, his throat feels closed up. He crosses his arms again and stares at the floor, petrified. 

“It’s not my place to be here. I know. And I’m sorry.”

Brian swallows hard, nearly choking. He’s watching Curt from his place across the room. 

Taking the time to look at him now, or rather, being forced to by the closed quarters, the trap he’d set for himself, he sees how vulnerable he looks. Hunched over, eyes downcast, voice weak. He looks like a little boy, and in fact, if it weren’t for the faint creases of his forehead, and the shallow sweeps of bags under his glossy eyes, he’d be the same Curt of ten years prior. A soft, unsure version, of course. He knows the Curt he once knew wouldn’t show this to him, no matter the circumstance. 

The thought makes something sharp twist in his stomach. He can’t push it down now, can’t even grasp the will to try. 

Curt’s clawing at the back of his hand, taking quick shaky breaths. He looks like he’s trying to disappear within himself. His expression is far away, but it doesn’t hide the sheen of panic, the glint in his eyes akin to a deer in headlights. 

  
“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” He says, and it comes out in a bit of a burst,    
“I won’t tell anyone you came here. I won’t blow this up.”   
Curt glances up at him, and Brian’s face softens further, his lips curving tenderly.   
He casts his eyes down to the floor, scuffing the toe of his shoe on the carpet.   
“It hasn’t all gone away for me either, you know,” He admits, eyes on the pin again, “It hasn’t gone away.”   
Curt stutters, then shoves his hands in his pockets, his hair falling across his face.   
“I know you didn’t come here to hurt me, Curt.”

He stands a bit straighter then, like a weight has been lifted off of him. 

“Your play was really wonderful,” He says, raspy voice barely above a whisper. “What I saw of it anyway, you’re a really great writer.” 

Curt pushes his hair back from his face then, tucking it behind his ear. He looks at Brian again, his eyes kinder, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. 

“A great writer I mean, in a way I didn’t get to see before.” 

Brian smiles back, tiredly, but with a smug twist to it.   
“Thank you, Mr. Wild. _ ‘It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors.’  _ “   
Curt wrinkles his nose, his smile widening,   
“What’s with all this  _ Mr. Wild _ shit, Mr. Sla-”   
He stops, and the humor drops off of Brian’s face with a flinch. His eyes become darting, defensive, as if someone may leap through the door and grab him.   
“I’m sorry-” He stumbles, “I’m sorry-”   
Brian visibly collects himself, and folds his hands in his lap.    
“Please refrain from calling me that in my place of work.”    
“Yeah- sorry.”   
Silence falls, heavy and querulous. His fingers resume their tapping on the arm of the chair.    
Curt’s breathing becomes difficult again, his guilt hot on his face.    
“You may call me Mr. Stoningham,” Brian says, obviously trying to bridge the gap,   
“Or Brian. If you like, I also occasionally go by  _ Thomas  _ now.” He sneers, and straightens an imaginary crease in his pants.   
“How very wretched,” Curt murmurs, and he actually chuckles, his shoulders relaxing.   
When Brian glances up, his eyes fall upon the pin again. 

Curt’s face feels warm. He doesn’t know how Brian feels about it-the pin. He’d always just had it on his jacket. When he’d bought the jacket, leather, with orange on the sides, his favorite, back in ‘78 he’d simply put it on and had never really had to think about it again. 

He feels even more shy. Brian seems so professional, intimidating, untouchable. Not cold though, not anymore. 

Curt crosses the room and sits on the dark blue floral printed loveseat across from him, and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

He pulls one out, and then offers the carton to Brian. He meets his eyes, and they’re so blue. Bluer than he even remembers.

“You still smoke?” 

“No,” Brian scoffs, “I’ve given up all human vice.”   
“Right,” He lights one and hands it to him, “Cool ashtray, by the way.”   
He grins, and pulls on his cigarette. He’s very posh about it, very Brian.   
“You know, I stole that pin from Jack.”   
Curt is startled by how bluntly it’s brought up.   
“Er-Yeah.”   
“Why didn’t you ever give it back to him?”

He wasn’t expecting to have to answer this question. He rarely even thinks about the pin, it’s just something that’s a part of him now. It really had only been an issue that one time, years ago, when he’d thought he’d lost it. Jack had never even mentioned the pin to him. 

“He never asked about it, and I guess I never wanted to.” Curt says, and realizes it’s kind of a lazy answer. 

“What I mean is, it’s sentiment means something to me. I don’t want him to have it back.” 

Brian glances from the pin back to Curt’s face again, seeming to be processing that concept. 

“I see,” He says, incredulous. He takes another graceful pull on his cigarette. 

Curt watches his lips close around it, and after a moment the smoke flowing out of his mouth. He feels himself flush and he tears his eyes away.    
There’s a knock on the door: He tenses, but Brian rises calmly, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.   
He opens it so that only his face can be seen, and says calmly,   
“Ah- Mr. De Winter. Am I needed for something?”   
“Mr. Stoningham, sir- the show is over…”   
Curt sees Brian’s shoulders droop, his disappointment evident even if he can’t see his expression.   
“Indeed. I shall be ready to speak to the cast soon.”   
“Who have you got in there, sir?”   
A small pause, and then quietly,   
“An old friend of mine, from England. He’ll be pushing off soon.”   
He shuts the door and turns back to him, brushing a hand through his hair: with a little jolt, Curt realizes his eyes are shining, like he’s holding back tears.   
“Sorry for making you miss your show,” He says, uncertainly.   
“That’s alright. I’ll be seeing it again twice tomorrow.” He makes an attempt to smile, but it’s pinched. Curt is quiet, picking at his fingers again.   
“Should I go?”   
“Are you satisfied with this talk?”   
A slow, dead feeling starts in the middle of Curt’s chest and spreads until his head is throbbing, and his feet feel like they’re nailed to the floor. Of course not. Now everything just feels worse, even more unresolved.   
“I guess.”   
Brian looks shy suddenly, a little afraid. He swallows a couple times, then focuses his eyes on the pattern of the loveseat.   
“How many more days will you be in Paris?”   
“Why?” It comes out harsher than he’d meant it, and louder.   
“I thought you might want to talk again.”   
“Don’t feel obligated, Brian.”   
“I don’t- I want to see you.” He stops, then, and turns back to the door. Another uncomfortable, strained silence.   
“Another day and a half.” He mutters, finally.    
“Could you see me tomorrow night, alone?” His voice is very quiet and dry, and Curt knows he’s being especially careful not to let his tone make promises.   
“Sure, where?”   
“I have a flat.”   
“Does it have an address?”   
Brian crosses back over to his desk and scribbles it out on a piece of yellow paper, folding it and handing it to him. He takes it, and opens it, just so he’ll have something to do with his hands.   
“I have to go,” He whisks by him and opens the door, and his expression is strange, unreadable, “Do you need me to show you the way out?”   
Curt shakes his head, shoving the paper deep into his pocket.   
Brian smiles faintly,   
“Until tomorrow.”   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	11. My Set Is Amazing, Even If It Smells Like A Street

_ Brian’s lips are stained, bruised. He’s drunk, in his old living room in Birmingham. He knows that everyone knows, but that no-one will say anything. He knows he’ll get punished for it in the morning, but that nothing will ever be discussed. He wonders what it would take to get him thrown out of this house, and has a sudden urge to push that limit. _

_ “I kissed him,” He wants to say, he wants to roll over and slur it to his father, who’s watching television like a rigid corpse. _

_ “I kissed him, I kissed him, I kissed him in my room and in your house. Everything you’ve thought has been true.” _

_ Brian laughs, and feels his mother’s eyes turn to him from the couch, cold and disapproving. He wants to push everything, suddenly, to break all of it. To crush every eggshell he’s ever walked on, and get himself thrown out, or maybe even make them mad enough to kill him. It’s a feeling he’ll become more and more addicted to, until one day, his only fascination will be destroying himself. _

_ But right now, it’s new. It counteracts the rising shame in his stomach, making him feel powerful and sick. _

_ “We did more than kiss,” He mouths softly, “We did more than you think.” _

_ Neither of them look at him, but he imagines that their silhouettes become stiffer. He imagines they heard him. _

_ Another giggle bubbles out of his chest, rising over the white blare. _

_ “Go upstairs, Thomas,” His father says, low and furious, “Go to your room.” _

_ He stays in his seat, discombobulated, not sure he can get up. _

_ His father turns to him, _

_ “None of us want to look at you. Go up.” _

_ Brian is on his feet, swaying, still laughing. He’s so much angrier than either of them, he believes. They have no idea what it means to be angry. _

_ The sick feeling is stronger than ever before, and he pauses at the foot of the stairs, only to vomit all over the floor. _

_ He turns to them and smiles, overcome with pleasure. _

 

Brian crushes his cigarette under the toe of his shoe, overcome with the same sick feeling that he’d had then. He feels like he’s sixteen again, making mistakes that he won’t ever fix. He’s standing on the bridge, staring at his white skull’s reflection on the black water. Every few minutes he’ll glance at his watch, the time Curt is supposed to meet him ticking ever closer. If he’s been wrong about this whole thing, if he’s been wrong about trusting him, it’s over. He’ll never be able to hide again.

_ You get what you want, and you do what you will. _

Last night had been such a blur of thoughts and feelings, it barely feels real. Curt standing in his office, seeming so out of place: Black and blue against the floral print. Telling him things he didn’t know and didn’t want to hear. Curt had missed him. Brian had returned that feeling, and had told him as much, though every fiber of his being had told him to make him leave. Send him back to his own little world, back to Jack and Malcolm. Brian supposed it was almost romantic, him appearing on opening night and ending up in his office. Perhaps it proved that love was still alive in this cold, modern decade- the way his heart had jumped and crashed in his chest when Curt spoke, the way blushing and smiling came so easily to him. They were as ridiculous as he’d remembered them being, always darting around the real problem, around their real feelings.

_ He’s beautiful, _ Brian thinks, lighting another cigarette,  _ he’s very beautiful. He’s beautiful because he’s like nothing else I’ve ever loved. _

He shouldn’t have given him a written copy of his address. He didn’t trust Jack or Malcolm, and he certainly didn’t trust Curt to keep it away from them. He’d leave it in his coat pocket, or in his nightstand, and then what?

Anxiety slithers up Brian’s spine, but he’s already been in the thick of it so long it barely registers.

Denied hunger nauseates him- he cannot eat, not today.

 

The past two shows, which had been at ten and two respectively, had blown by him in a wave of confusion and exhaustion. No show was ever as exciting as opening night, but these had seemed especially trite: Brian supposed that was what happened when your personal life became more intriguing than your fictional works. He’d always tried to keep it so that wasn’t the case- maybe he’d put a terrorist attack or a mass poisoning in his next play, just to keep it even.

 

_ What will I do when he leaves again? _

 

The thought comes to him suddenly, fretfully: the dark energy buzzing in his brain tells him that Brian could ask him to stay, that he could make him stay forever. No, he couldn’t. They’d tried that back when it was plausible, when they were young and stupid and energetic enough to make it work.

There are other things to worry about now, such as the funeral he had to attend next week. Such as returning home to Birmingham and seeing his family, such as answering the endless passive-aggressive questions from his mother. There were things such as grieving for his father, whom he’d never really known beyond a dark face in the hallway that he had to avoid.

 

Only a half an hour until seven. He has enough time to get to the liquor store and vacuum before Curt arrives, if he’s coming after all.

 

* * *

 

By ten o’ clock he’s thoroughly pissed, and Curt is over three hours late. The bottle of cheap wine-  _ yes, he’d bought wine-  _ dangles listlessly from his fingers, clinking occasionally against the floor.

He feels nauseous, stupid, and completely humiliated. He should’ve known Curt would never show, that such an  _ important  _ and  _ brilliant _ talent would have better things to do. Maybe Malcolm and Jack had deterred him somehow, maybe Jack had talked him out of it. He always had such a hold on Curt, or at least that’s how it had seemed to him.

Or maybe he’d done the smart thing, the mature thing, and realized it was a terrible idea. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, making his embarrassment even worse. Now he’s crying over it.

Then comes the knock on his door, quiet and apologetic.

“…Brian?”

His mouth twists into a sneer. Maybe he won’t say anything, just let him stand out there all night, or until he has somewhere to be.

“Listen, I would’ve called but I didn’t have your number,” Brian rolls his eyes and sets the bottle down,

“Jack found out, okay? But don’t worry, he’s not going to do anything about it. He just- really didn’t want me to come here.”

He closes his eyes, fisting a hand in his hair in an attempt to control his irritation.

“Please. I really fucked up, I know, I just couldn’t get away. Malcolm got really suspicious-“

He pauses as another set of footsteps passes him in the hallway: someone on their way home.

“And I didn’t know what to do, because Jack was just making him upset by not telling him what was up, and then they started fighting- it doesn’t really matter. Please let me in.”

Brian heaves himself to his feet, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. A hard knot has settled in his chest, and he feels his face beginning to burn.

He yanks open the door, causing Curt to stumble backwards into the corridor.

It’s dim, freezing cold. One of the lights is flickering, casting odd shadows across his pale face, making the whole scene even sadder. Curt looks very small, very unsure- in that moment his eyes seem impossibly dark, and blue. He’s still wearing the same jacket, and the same pin- a bit dulled with age, but still the same. People must have given him hell for wearing Brian Slade’s pin, they must have bullied him for years.

“I’m sorry, Brian,” He says, “I didn’t want to do that to you.”

“I’ve been waiting for three hours.”

“I know- I know.”

“I set this up so you could talk to me. This was for  _ you. _ ”

Curt’s mouth is red from the cold, as are his cheeks and nose. He looks away, towards the flickering light: his hair turns silver and gold, silver and gold.

“I’m sorry.”

Brian stares at him, unrelenting.

“Come in if you’re coming in. I’ve drunk most of the wine.”

He ducks back into the warmth of his flat, throwing himself back into his chair by the window.

Curt stands in the doorway, his hand on the knob, the chill of the corridor slipping in past his boots.

He picks at his zipper, shame apparent in every line of his body.

“Close the door, please.”

 

He does so, and looks up at Brian again: In the warm light of the living room, he seems younger, smaller. He kicks out his legs and crosses them, smiling up at him maliciously.

“Sit down, preferably somewhere close, so we can hear each other well.”

Without a word, he sits on the loveseat across from him, a defensive, bitter look beginning to settle on his face. They’re about to have a screaming match- lovely. The silence is coarse, and he refuses to break it, instead needling his eyes into Curt’s until he looks away.

“I don’t want to do this while you’re pissed off and wasted.”

“Why not? We’ve done it that way plenty of times before. If you didn’t want it to be like this you should’ve been on time, instead of making me wait around for you like an  _ idiot. _ ”

Brian’s voice echoes off the walls: If anyone from next door complains, he’ll kill them.

 

“Well that’s really fucking fair, isn’t it?” Curt’s voice is rising now too, bringing him right back to the old days,

“Nobody made you wait, nobody made you invite me, nobody made you do anything you didn’t want to do.”

He’s leaning in slightly, his eyes glowing, unfocused. Brian wonders suddenly if he’s high, or drunk, or both.

“I’m not blaming you for anything, I’m sure Jack can be very persuasive.”

“What the hell is  _ that _ supposed to mean?”

“Don’t act stupid, Curt, I know where you went and what you did when you abandoned me the first time.”

Brian realizes he’s breathing very hard and fast, and that it feels like something is winding itself tightly around his lungs. Curt’s expression switches from hurt, to angry, to confused.

“I didn’t  _ abandon  _ you for anything,” He says slowly, and Brian decides that he’s definitely stoned,

“You were getting rid of  _ me. _ ”

It’s so hard to inhale, it’s so hard to remember to breathe.

Curt’s voice had softened momentarily, but it’s rising again, and he’s leaning in closer and closer as though he might punch him.

“I tried to come back, I kept trying to come back- you got rid of me, you let Jerry throw me off the label- and then you fucking died on me, and then you weren’t dead, and then you ran off- What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” There’s something blocking up his throat, so his voice is only a whisper,

“I don’t know.”

“You know the real reason I went to Berlin, Brian?” Curt has never spoken so softly, or looked so menacing, “You know why I went?”

He doesn’t answer.

“It wasn’t so I could fuck Jack-I went because at the time, and I’m sure you remember what things were like in ’74, I could get heroin there for  _ nothing _ and I knew I could get enough to kill myself. Y’know, I really didn’t feel like staying alive after you dropped me on my ass because I wasn’t good enough for you.”

His eyes are glittering, a flat, dangerous blue. Brian can feel the tears streaming down his face, can hear his own pathetic sobs ripping themselves from his throat. Curt looks pale and drawn, lost, and with a sick sense of falling off the Earth he wonders if this is the last time they’ll ever see each other.

 

“That is not- that is  _ not true, _ ” He stutters, thick and almost unintelligible,

“That was  _ not _ what was wrong that is  _ not  _ what I said-“

“So what did you say, exactly?” Curt’s screaming again, and he’s on his feet, pacing back and forth,

“What did you mean when you told me I was a bad investment? What did you mean when you started talking about me like I was just a commodity? When you told me I was out of a job, and that maybe I should consider getting a room somewhere else?”

 

“What are you pretending, Curt?” Brian tries to shout, but it’s weak and floundering,

“It was all falling away from us. It was horrible. For God’s sake, we were children- and we were losing it, everyone was losing it. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to talk to him about keeping you on but you were  _ unmanageable,”  _ He wipes his nose on the back of his hand, “And there was nothing I could do.”

Curt has stopped pacing, standing dumb in the middle of the floor.

“Then you left, and I didn’t know where you were-“

“If you’d given a shit-“

“I asked all around,” He sits up straighter in his chair, forcing their eyes to meet, “I asked everyone where you were and not even the junkies could tell me. The next thing I heard you were in a different country, with Jack, making a record and I had nothing left. I had no one.”

Brian imagines that Curt’s lip is trembling slightly, but it’s too dim in the room to tell. He’s turned partially away from him, eyes halfway to the door.

“I saw you at the show,” He says, and all the heat and anger is sucked out of the room in an instant,

“But you didn’t come up to me.”

“I was in the process of coming here. I went to the airport that night.”

He looks back at him, and his gaze is hard, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“That’s it, then. I think we’ve talked.”

He crosses to the door, his blonde hair whipping out behind him. Brian stumbles to his feet, feeling blank and numb.

 

He manages to grab his arm, and he clutches it as tightly as he can. Curt is almost hyperventilating.

“Where are you going? Why are you going?”

“It hurts too much, I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Brian’s hand fists around his arm, and he looks back at him, unsure.

“Don’t go,” He presses him to the door, trying to hold him in place,

“Don’t go.”

Curt stares at him incredulously, and so he kisses him. 

  
  



	12. Heaven

Brian’s lips feel soft, plush and hot against his. His face is warm and wet with tears. 

He’s pressing Curt’s shoulder into the door with one hand and the other on his hip. 

He’s crushing him there, and he’s stronger than he looks. Curt could still fight him off, get away if he really tried, but he doesn’t. It’s too much. He couldn’t. 

Brian means it. Brian wants him. Desperate for it. 

Curt kisses him back, fists a hand in his hair. He bites his lip and he gasps into it. 

He tastes like cigarettes, wine, and salt. His other hand is slipping up under his shirt now. 

“Curt.” Brian whispers, sounding wrecked. His skin feels warm and soft under Curt’s cool fingers. 

He pulls him closer, flush against him. 

“Do you want this,” Curt rasps under his breath, and he moves his hips. “Do you want me to fuck you, Brian?” 

His tone is low, dangerous. Brian shivers. 

Curt’s already hard and he can feel it. 

“Yes,” He’s nearly sobbing. “I want it. Just fuck me, take me, _ please. _ ”

His hand slides down to Brian’s ass and squeezes. He feels a burst of a startled breath on his cheek. 

“You made me mad.” 

“I’m sorry Curt, I’m sorry puppy, please.” 

“Fuck.” He’s burning up now, straining against his jeans. “You’re so hot. Look so pretty all teary eyed.” 

“ _ Puppy _ -”

“You think you can just start calling me  _ that  _ all of a sudden?” 

Brian mewls and pushes back. He’s shaking, getting embarrassingly hard himself. 

Suddenly he’s being pushed off of Curt, forcefully. For a split second, he’s terrified he’s ruined the whole thing, but then he grabs Brian’s chin and meets his eyes. 

They’re glossy, deep blue glistening, pupils blown wide. 

“If you’re gonna act like a stupid little slut, then I’m going to treat you like one.” 

Brian gasps. He tries to nod but he can’t move, Curt’s too strong. 

His knees feel weak. 

Curt kisses him again, trailing down his cheek to his neck. He bites him hard. 

“Fuck-Curt please-” 

“Shut up.” He reaches up and grips him by the back of the neck. Brian feels dizzy. 

“You’re gonna make it up to me.” 

He can barely even make a sound before Curt’s shoving him in the direction of the hallway. 

“Bedroom.” 

Brian can barely keep his eyes open, he backs them up into the entryway, kissing him, not being able to keep himself from whimpering into his mouth. 

Then he feels himself being lifted off his feet, he quickly wraps his legs around Curt’s waist. 

He’s breathless and squirming.  His cock is throbbing in his trousers. 

Brian can’t think and suddenly he’s being thrown down on his bed. Curt’s crawling over him and pinning his arms above his head. 

He’s tugging on his jeans. 

“Want these off.” 

Brian lifts his hips, and allows him to unzip and yank them off. They’re discarded somewhere across the room. 

Curt looks violent, angry. Like he’s not sure if he wants to use his ass or break his nose. 

He rips his own shirt off. Brian feels too hot now, and tugs at his own button down desperately. 

“Useless baby,” He says, exasperated and soft. He pulls Brian’s hands away and undoes the buttons one by one. His hair falls in front of his face and he’s breathing hard. 

It seems to take forever, he’s squirming and bucking his hips. Then Curt pulls him up and finally, gets the shirt off. 

“Please fuck me puppy, please.” 

He’s nearly panting, staring at Curt with glossy pleading eyes. 

“Please.” 

“Whiny little whore, you want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, yes please, just take me I want it. I want cock.” 

“God, fuck, shut up, Brian. Really hard.” 

He whimpers and shifts, his eyes are on the bulge showing through Curt’s jeans. 

“I want it. Give it to me already.” He makes a move to just reach out and grab his cock, but Curt stops him. 

Then he takes him by the back of the neck again and shoves him down on his stomach. He manhandles him, pulls him up on his knees , ass in the air. 

He pulls Brian’s underwear down past his thighs. He runs his hands over him, murmuring praise, drags his nails up and down his back until he starts whimpering. 

“Just fuck me, just fuck me I can’t take it anymore.” 

“Jesus christ.”    
He hears a zipper, then he feels something hard and hot pressing against his hole. 

“Fuck fuck, please. Please. Anything. Just put it in me.” 

“Brian-fuck. Baby. I can’t wait. I don’t have the patience to work you open.” 

“Don’t then-don’t. Just force it in.” 

He hears Curt spit into his hand a few times and rub it over his cock. 

“It’s gonna hurt.” 

“Don’t care. Just do it.” 

Curt growls low in his throat and pushes in. He’s anchoring Brian down on the bed and using him to steady himself. 

He’s splitting Brian open. 

“Fuck, you’re tight. So tight. Too fucking small for me.” 

“Daddy, daddy. Too much. Too big.”    
“Oh my god.” 

Curt starts moving his hips, slamming into him, tearing him open. 

Nobody felt like Brian. Nothing did. 

“You’re clenching-baby,” He reaches down and fists Brian’s cock. “My tiny princess.” 

“Daddy, daddy, more, daddy. Too much. Too thick.” 

The sound of skin slapping against skin is loud, almost too much to bare. 

Curt bites the back of his neck and forces it harder. 

“You’re _ mine _ . This ass is mine.” 

“Yours, daddy. All yours.” 

“Mine.” 

It’s all going too fast but neither of them can slow down. It’s been too long. 

It’s too much. 

“Don’t. Take your hand off. I’ll come. Don’t.” 

“No.” 

“Daddy please.” 

“Want you to make a mess for me.” 

“I cant, I can’t take it. It’s so much it’s too much.” 

“Are you sorry, baby?” 

Brian’s twitching, and clenching around Curt like a vice. 

He’s pulling out and slamming in, over and over. 

“I’m sorry daddy, I’m so sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?” 

Brian can’t think, can’t even make a sound. 

“Come on, kitten.” 

“I’m sorry for being a brat.” 

“That’s right.” Curt’s voice is shaky, raspy. He sounds wrecked. 

“Daddy your cock is throbbing so hard. Bet you wanna shoot.” 

Then he reaches down and shoves his fingers into Brian’s mouth. 

He gasps, moaning around them. 

“You’re gonna shut your filthy mouth, stupid whore. You come when I tell you to.”

Curt spanks him, once, twice, then he loses count. His brain goes blank, he can’t see. 

It burns, it stings, he’s getting stretched open and used like a toy. A way he hasn’t been in years. 

It hits that perfect spot inside him until tears are running down his face. 

His whole body is trembling. His muscles are tight, he can’t stop clenching. 

Brian can barely hear Curt’s voice. It’s far away, low, breathless. 

“You’re my bitch. You’re gonna be good and do what you’re told.” 

He’s going so so fast. He takes his fingers out of Brian’s mouth, and now he’s panting. 

Then he squeezes Brian’s cock.

“Come. Now.” 

“Daddy, daddy, daddy-” 

He tumbles over the edge with such intensity that his vision goes white. He spills over Curt’s hand, all over the sheets. 

Not a second later, he feels hot come spilling into him, filling him up. Curt is breathing his name, somewhere above him. 

As soon as he lets him go, Brian collapses onto the mattress. His head is empty. 

Then Curt is next to him, pulling him into his chest. 

“So good for me. So, so good.”

 

* * *

Everything in Brian feels warm, light and feathery for a long time. Very slowly his environment starts to filter back into consciousness. 

He feels Curt’s fingers carting gently through his hair. His chest is rising and falling, steady and slow. His other arm is around Brian protectively, a comforting weight against his back. 

His smell is the same as it always was, sandalwood, cigarettes and sweat. 

Brian realizes with increasing dread that this is the safest he’s felt in as long as he can remember. His heart feels like it’s being squeezed. 

He shifts and pulls away, just a little, and is met with big, soft and concerned ocean eyes.

The squeezing gets tighter. 

“Feel okay?” Curt asks, gently. 

“Yes,” His voice is a whisper. “Very okay.” 

Curt chuckles softly, looking content and relaxed for a few blissful moments. 

Then uncertainty creeps into his expression, he separates from him and sits up. 

He looks a mess, his hair tousled and wild, damp with sweat. Brian’s eyes trail down his chest. 

“Oh my.” He can’t help laughing a little.

“What?” 

“I assure you I didn’t mean to.” 

There’s a deep purple coin-sized bruise just below Curt’s collar bone. He looks down at it, pressing his finger into it. He smirks, and shrugs. 

“It’s fine. My shirt isn’t off as much as it used to be.” 

“Oh no? Shame.” Even so, some part of Brian feels very satisfied that Curt won’t be able to physically erase him for at least a week. It sends a jolt into the pit of his stomach. 

“Do you have any?” Curt asks, looking him over. He moves to check his back. 

“Oh fuck.” He bursts out, rough with laughter. 

“What did you do to me?” 

He trails a finger up Brian’s neck and taps a spot just below his hairline. 

“It’s pretty bad.”    
“Curt!”   
_ “I assure you I didn’t mean to.”  _

Brian’s blushing, Curt’s hand is still on the back of his neck, rubbing the bruise. There are teeth marks. 

“You’re terrible! I work in a professional setting!” 

“Mmhm.” 

Brian sighs, his eyes still on him. He really is beautiful, and it’s only gotten stronger with age.

Curt drops his hold on him, and tears a hand through his hair, a deep-set nervous habit of his. 

“What time is it?” 

Brian glances at the clock on his nightstand. 

“Two,” He says, carefully. “Why?”

“My flight’s at ten.” 

“Oh.” 

It hits him like a train. Curt is going to leave and he can’t stop him. 

“Yeah.” His voice is hoarse.

He reaches across the bed to grab his jeans, and sits on the end and pulls them on. He gets to his feet, and zips them up. 

“Are you leaving now, then?” Brian asks, tone flat.

Curt turns to look at him. 

“Do you want me to?”

“Well, I hardly know what we’re going to do now.” 

Brian gets up and pulls on his own trousers. He tugs his shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned. 

“You can just tell me to go.” 

“I didn’t say I wanted you to leave.” 

“It’s what you implied.” Curt says, defensive. He’s scratching his knuckles now, picking off scabs. 

“I don’t,” Brian takes a deep breath. “I’m just not sure what to do now.” 

“You’ve gotten your use out of me, haven’t you?”    
They’re standing only a few feet apart now. 

“What?” 

“If I wasn’t for how good in bed I was I would be unbearable. Isn’t that what they used to say about me? ‘Cause y'know that’s really all I’m useful for, otherwise I’m just batshit crazy and a bad investment.” 

For a second, Brian can’t even think he’s so angry. 

“Honestly, Curt? Really? You think  _ that’s  _ what’s going on here?” 

“Well it’s just the facts,” His tone is sarcastic, dismissive. “I was never much more than a whore to you.” 

“Where is this even coming from? That doesn’t even make sense. What are you trying to guilt me into?” 

Curt is tearing at his hand, and there’s blood dripping down his fingers. He doesn’t say anything. 

“Do you really think that’s how I feel?” Brian says, incredulous. “Are you that stupid?” 

“I don’t know, Brian!” He’s raising his voice now. “I don’t know why else you’d invite me here, let me fuck you, and then get all closed off on me and act like you want me to go.” 

“Were you not present for the conversation we just had where I was sobbing, were you not there when I was literally clinging to you, begging you not to leave my flat like a desperate idiot? When have I ever in my life, Curt, given you that impression?” 

He’s silent, and rocking back and forth slightly. 

“Give me one bloody instance when I ever treated you that way!” 

“Mandy.” Curt blurts out. “She told me you said that.” 

“What?” 

“After we split, she told me you said I was just another one of your whores.” 

“I never said that!” Brian is nearly shouting, throat burning and eyes watering. “Never, I would never.” 

“She said-” Curt says, his voice is shaking and he’s breathing hard and shallow. “She said that you told her that when we came back from our trip. When we went away to the beach together, just us.” 

He’s crying now, tears are streaming down his face and he’s trying desperately to breathe, still clawing at his hand. 

“I-I couldn’t let go of you, I wouldn’t, because fuck I loved you Brian. I loved you so much. I knew it’d never be like that again. And then when she-at the Death of-fuck-” 

Brian can’t breathe. 

“At the Death of Glitter show when I saw you, and then you didn’t-you didn’t talk to me, she told me that back then you told that to her, and that she didn’t want to see me keep getting hurt. I got too complicated and you threw me away the first chance you got.” 

Brian’s crying now too, and he grabs Curt by the wrist. 

“Curt, no.” He says, voice too loud, too harsh. “I was lying. It wasn’t how I felt. I loved you, I loved you so completely, I would’ve done anything to keep you.” 

He’s hyperventilating in earnest now, spitting out heaving sobs. 

“Darling, no, I swear. I just didn’t want her involved. You were all there was. You were everything to me. Curt, look at me.” 

He meets his eyes, hurt and panic flooding his vision. 

Brian cradles his face, feeling a desperate need to be closer, to make him see. He presses his forehead to Curt’s, his face still wet with tears. 

“I adored you. There was no one else I wanted. Only you. I promise you. There was only you.” 

Curt throws his arms around Brian’s shoulders, buries his face in his neck. He knows there’s no going back, he’s shown too much, fallen apart one time too many. He feels so weak, and an overpowering ache to be close. 

Brian pulls him in tighter, holds him in a way he hasn’t in forever. 

“I mean it, Curt. I wouldn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” He speaks in a soft murmur and rubs his back. “Please don’t cry, sweet boy.” 

He can’t stop. The weight of it all is crushing him, breaking his heart over and over. The burden of that hurt for so many years, how hard this tour has been, seeing Brian, being here with him, having it all drowning him, and knowing that in just a few hours he’s going to be taken away from it again. 

He’s going to have to go back to his apartment in Seattle all by himself with everything swimming in his head. What else can he do? 

He can’t stay here. He and Brian have seperate lives. Very different lives. 

Curt has no idea what he wants, except to never have to leave. 

  
  



	13. Atmosphere

Charles de Gaulle Airport is busy, massive, surreal. It looks and feels like every other airport Curt has been in. A dimension removed from reality, where time is fluid- nothing certain, nothing solid. 

He’s boarding the plane, finally, Jack and Malcolm trailing behind him as they walk down the hallway, carry on bags hanging off their shoulders, across their backs. 

Curt takes a window seat. They only fly private. He’d only ever flown private. He’d never flown before meeting Brian, being swept up in the madness of it all, he’d just ended up places, without really knowing anything about the process of getting there. 

Everyone leaves him alone, gives him space. Curt is quite possibly the most exhausted he’s ever been in his life. He plugs his headphones into his Walkman and closes his eyes and they take off. As they ascend into the clouds, Curt lets the tears come. Sobs shake him as turbulence rocks the plane. Piano riffs and soft symbols muffle the sound in his head. 

Sleep finds him halfway into his Chet Baker album. He dreams of falling.

 

* * *

“I’m concerned about him,” Jack is stirring milk into his bengal spice tea. “I’m just not sure if I’m comfortable leaving him by himself now. Couldn’t we spare a few more weeks, even days?” 

He and Malcolm are in Curt’s kitchen, the morning after they’d landed in Seattle, sitting across from each other. It’s early afternoon. Sun is filtering through the window, the sky outside is clear. 

“Babe, he’s a grown man. I know you care, and it’s really sweet, but don’t you wanna get on with our lives? So what, he fucked his ex in Paris and now he’s a little depressed. It’s not like this is new for him. He has his rough patches, his ups and downs. He’ll bounce back.” 

It’s the first thing Curt hears as he eases into consciousness. 

_ He has his rough patches, his ups and downs. He’ll bounce back. _

They’re talking about him like they’re his parents. 

Curt opens his eyes to dim gray walls. The curtains in his bedroom are closed, the air is cool. 

He stretches, all his muscles feel stiff. His hands are sore, scabbed over. 

He sighs, and sits up. Curt feels hollowed out, empty- like there’s a giant hole in his chest. He’s shaking a little, his head is pounding. He needs caffeine

The floor is freezing cold on the bottoms of his feet. He makes his way out into the kitchen, groggy and dragging, dreading confrontation.

“Why hello Curtis.” Malcolm says, voice not mocking, but not kind either. They’re staring at him. 

He doesn’t say anything, just pushes past to the already prepped coffee machine and presses the on button. 

“Who wants a joint?”

 

* * *

Somehow, Curt convinces Jack and Malcolm to go back to Berlin. Over the next few days, he isn’t sober for more than thirty minutes. He visits his dealer, stocks up, and spends all his time out of his apartment. 

He wanders through the city. He goes to the state forest and walks through the trails high off his ass barely able to comprehend all the green and the winding roads. 

He can’t keep Brian off of his mind. Big blue eyes, plush soft mouth, and how it felt against his neck. Smooth, gentle voice. Arms around him, sandy hair tickling his chin, his thin, lithe body tucked against his chest. 

Curt is still in love with him. He can’t hide from it, can’t run from it, can’t deny it. 

It’s burning- he’s in physical pain. He can feel the distance. He can feel the strain. 

He remembers having to tear himself away from Brian, wrench himself out of his arms. He’d gotten his collar wet with his own tears. 

It hurt then and it hadn’t stopped. 

Yet, still, it isn’t until very early in the morning, after a sleepless night that he gives in. 

Eyes full of tears, head swimming, drowning in memories, blood full of drugs, he dials the number to the phone in Brian’s flat, and makes the international call. 

He feels stupid, desperate and childish all over again. It had been maybe the one constant over the last three weeks- that feeling, that inadequate feeling. Like he wasn’t good enough for Brian anymore. 

He has to confirm the ridiculous amount of money he’ll have to pay for the connection. The line is fuzzy, and then starts to ring. 

Curt holds his breath and prays that Brian won’t mind, that he’ll accept, that he’ll answer. 

After what seems like forever, there’s a click, and then a soft, English _ “Hello?”  _

Curt chokes, and tries to gather himself. 

“Um,” He finally says, after far too long. “Hey.” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“May I ask who’s calling?” 

“Oh, uh, sorry. It’s Curt.” 

A sigh. Of relief? Exhaustion? He can’t tell, and starts picking at his fingers. 

“Hi.” Brian says, and now he sounds a bit surprised, maybe even shy. 

Curt already feels his throat burning like he’s going to start sobbing all over again. He takes a few steadying breaths, but it doesn’t help anything. 

“Uh-” He swallows hard. “How are you?” 

“I’m fine,” Brian says, his voice is gentler than it has any right to be. “A bit surprised to hear from you, really.” 

Curt can’t hold it in and the sob hurts as it comes up his throat. 

“I-I’m sorry, Brian, I didn’t-” His breathing is so labored he thinks he’ll fall over. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a right to just- fucking, break down on you like this.” 

“Darling, it’s alright. Just breathe, everything’s alright. It’s all okay.” 

“No, but really- I just- I miss you, Brian.” 

Brian lets out a tiny breath. 

“I miss you too, sweet boy.” His voice is barely above a whisper. 

“You don’t have to humor me.” 

“I’m not, I mean it,” Curt imagines him running his fingers through his hair. “I’m concerned. Are you safe? Is someone with you?” 

“No, no Mal and Jack flew back to Berlin yesterday.”    
Brian sighs, feeling a mix of worry and a bit of selfish satisfaction. 

“Just, nothing is the same,” Curt is shaking. “I can’t, just pretend I wasn’t with you. I can’t. And I don’t know if you feel this. I don’t want to- to bother you with it or anything like that.” 

“Puppy,” His voice is a bit unsteady now, too. “Of course I feel the same. It-It’s hurting, how far apart we are. That you’re crying at two in the morning, and I can’t hold you. Should never have let you leave.” 

“Brian, baby,” Tears are streaming down his face. He feels so pathetic and his chest feels so tight. “Baby.” 

“I don’t want you far away from me like this.” 

“I need you.” 

“Don’t talk like that, Curt. It hurts.” 

“I’m sorry, I just- I do.” 

“I need you too.” 

They’re both quiet for a moment, the only sound Curt trying and failing to catch his breath. 

“How- how about this,” Brian stutters, sounding unsure. “I could come see you? You came to me, didn’t you? It’s only fair.” 

“Oh, uh-” 

“If you don’t want me to, I understand.” 

“No, no. I want you to. Very much.” 

“You do?” 

“Yes, Brian. I want to see you. I’ll pay for your ticket.” 

“No,” Brian says, firm. “You will not.” 

Curt sniffs. 

“I’m in good standing to.” 

“You just came back from a bloody tour, I know those expenses. I’m capable.” 

“Okay, okay.” He sighs. “Just, promise you won’t lie to me and leave me waiting at the airport or something.” 

“I wouldn’t, puppy, of course not.” 

“Okay. Next week?” 

“Next week.” 

“Can I call you again? Before then?” 

“I’m not busy at all on Sunday.” 

“Okay.” 

“Please stay safe, Curt. I need to see you again.” 

“Yeah, yeah I will.” 

“I’m counting down the hours.” 

“Shut up,” Curt laughs, finally. “You ol’ romantic.” 

Brian kisses the phone. 

“Uh-um-” He feels his face grow warm. “Wow.” 

“Kiss me back.” 

He does. 

“Goodnight, Curt.” Brian says, very soft. “It’ll feel better. Be safe.” 

“I will, you too, Goodnight.” 

  
  



	14. In The Age Of This Grand Illusion, You Walked Into My Life

Since he hung up the phone, Brian has written approximately three painfully obvious love songs.

Tonight, he is composing the fourth.

 

Candlelight spills across his tiny writing desk, crammed into the corner of his room. It hasn’t occurred to him to turn on the overhead, or a lamp- he sat down at three AM with the candle already burning, and hasn’t shifted since. The heavy smell of false flowers permeates the room, settling into his clothes and hair, as his pen slashes across the page.

 

**_This week dragged past me so slowly_ **

**_The days fell on their knees_ **

**_Maybe I’ll take something to help me_ **

**_Hope someone takes after me_ **

**_I guess there’s always some change in the weather_ **

**_This time I know we could get it together_ **

 

**_If I did casually mention tonight, that would be crazy tonight_ **

 

As Brian writes he hums, a faint line appearing between his brows. He sings quietly to himself, then shakes his head, and starts over. The melody had been in his head all day at the theatre, had followed him home and wound its way through his dreams when he tried to sleep. This one had started the day Curt left, as one of those pointless tunes he hummed to himself while he cleaned. It never faded, though: it stayed with him, and became several different poems before becoming the one he had now.

 

**_Life is so vague when it brings someone new_ **

**_This time tomorrow, I’ll know what to do_ **

**_I know that it’s happened to you_ **

 

He pushes himself away from the table, wishing for the first time in five years that he had a guitar at his disposal, or a piano, just  _ something.  _ A mad urge to run out and find one first thing in the morning comes over him, and he knows that this time he’ll give in.

He turns back to the page, dotted with ink and crumpled at the edges, and writes:

 

**_Stay_ **

**_That’s what I meant to say, or do something_ **

**_But what I never say is_ **

**_Stay, this time_ **

 

These  _ are  _ the first concrete pieces of music he’s come up with since  _ Lipstick Traces _ , despite numerous efforts and weeks of anguish. They’re good- that’s what’s important- though he can barely stand how un-subtle they are. He longs for the days when he could talk about his feelings for Curt with some ambiguity, through metaphors and references and occasionally, with different languages all together.

Brian plays with the end of his sleeve, remembering how clever he’d felt when he came up with  _ Hot One, _ knowing no one would ever see through it.

 

Now, though, his feelings are too blatant for that.

 

**_‘Cause you can never really tell_ **

**_When somebody wants something_ **

**_You want too_ **

 

He finishes the last line and stands up, going to the window and peering out at the moon.

_ It doesn’t have to be an expensive guitar, _ he decides.

 

* * *

 

Brian’s new, dinky, pale-blue guitar sits between the television and one of his many bookcases. It is horrendously cheap and ugly, and he doesn’t blame the cat for being afraid of it.

She stares at him accusingly as Estelle lights into him for the umpteenth time that week.

“So you’re just  _ leaving _ the show, Mr. Stoningham?”

Brian tucks the phone under one ear and watches the wine swirl in his glass, his mind quite far away. Right now he’s buried in travel time, and flight tickets, and the sound of Curt’s voice if he calls him tonight.

“As I’ve explained, Estelle, I will only be gone four days and I’m  _ sure _ the man I’ve put in charge can handle everything.”

“That is not the  _ point, Thomas,  _ the point is you should be more committed to your work!”

The sun is sinking outside, dyeing the window pane scarlet and orange. As he does routinely throughout the day, he calculates what time it is in Seattle.

“I care very deeply about my show, but it’s very flattering to me that you do as well.”

“I just think that you should be more  _ involved. _ ”

“I shall be extremely involved when I return home, in four days.”

She scoffs, and he hears ice jingling in a glass. There’s a soft bark somewhere behind her.

“Where are you going, again?”

“To Seattle.”

“And for what reason?”

Brian smiles, a ridiculous flush of happiness coming over him.

“I’m visiting an old friend.”

“Oh,” She says, voice thick with disappointment,

“How utterly delightful.”

  
  


The minute he’s off the phone he’s got his guitar in his lap, pouring over a mound of messy papers. He feels sixteen again, writing piles of bad poetry in the hopes of getting someone’s interest. There are so many things he has to say, suddenly, so many things he feels he’s never said properly. In the same way that  _ Dream On  _ gutted him mere weeks ago, it’s equally enlivening now, inspiring to him. He still can’t quite believe that Curt was here, or that he’s waiting for him in some far-off American flat.

Once again, he feels dragged backward into the past: But not in a bad way. As he was happy then, sitting in a fog of silly excitement and composing songs about Curt Wild, he is now.

 

**_Love me, love me, love me_ **

**_Say you do_ **

**_Let me fly away with you_ **

**_For our love is like the wind_ **

**_And wild is the wind_ **

 

He wrinkles his nose, but does not throw the paper away, instead opting to pick out a melody.

The sun sinks, slowly, fading from striking red to melancholy pink. The shadows rise around him, engulfing him but not disturbing him.

Eventually he grows tired, and his fingers, not yet adjusted to the strings, ache miserably. He sets the guitar aside. He imagines the song drifting through the street below him, chasing itself around on various radios and speaker systems. It would be quite a fitting song for an evening in Paris.

The cat jumps up in his lap, and he strokes her languidly, his mind turning once again to America and Curt Wild.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s laughing at him as he stumbles breathlessly around the apartment, having left the receiver on the table.

“I can’t find it- I tell you, I cannot find it.”

“You don’t  _ need it, _ you’ll be here for four days.”

“What if I get  _ bored, _ ” Brian insists, throwing down a copy of  _ The God of Carnage,  _ “What if I need something to  _ look at? _ ”

The cat races past him, having just come into contact with the guitar.

“You have  _ me. _ ”

He turns back to the bookcase and scans it again, biting his lip. The clock is ticking away behind him, counting off seconds he needed to get to the airport.

“I don’t understand-” There’s a rustling as Curt rolls over, “I don’t understand why you need some dumb art book. We’re going to be doing stuff.”

“Oh? Stuff?” Brian asks blandly, distracted.

“Yes- Stuff.” He can hear him smiling over the phone.

“And will Jack and Malcolm be hearing any of it?”

“I  _ told you,  _ they’re back in Berlin. You can be as loud as you want.”

“And you’re  _ sure _ no one will be around?”

He’s flicking through  _ La Planete De Sauvage  _ now, deeply unhappy.

“Baby. No one who cares.”

“Maybe I want people who care, maybe I want admirers.”

“If you’re going to do the orgy thing you can fucking stay home.”

“I would, but I’ve booked my ticket.”

Brian throws the book into a bag, which is coupled with his three suitcases, because you never knew how much you should bring.

“I must go, Mr. Wild.”

“And you’re  _ really _ coming to the airport?”

“No, I’ve packed half my house so that I could mail myself to Ecuador.”

“Okay. I love you.

“I love you, too.”

“Where is Ecuador?”

Brian laughs, and hangs up.

  
  



	15. Lay Your Head Where My Heart Used To Be

There’s been a change in him. In both of them, maybe. Ten hours to kill. Ten unreal, non-solid hours of a purgatory. Anticipation, anxiety and longing- unlike any Curt has felt before. 

He thinks of Brian’s smile on the phone. His fretting and mannerisms. 

Then his thoughts trail to him on his knees on his mattress with Curt inside him. 

He swallows hard.  _ You wanna swallow something else.  _

_ Shut up, Curt.  _

He thinks of Brian on the plane and wonders what he’ll think of. How he’ll possibly entertain himself. He always got nervous about flying, Curt remembers the one time they flew together while they were- well, in whatever relationship they were in- and how tightly he gripped his hand. 

Curt feels worry stir in his stomach, suddenly wishes he could be there. He could turn the pads of his headset inside out and let Brian listen to  _ Chet Baker Sings,  _ his favorite comforting album to stare out at the clouds with. 

He’s lying on his kitchen floor, started feeling too warm and anxious and needed something cool against his skin. He feels his heart hammering in his chest. 

_ Ten fucking hours of this.  _

He runs his nails down his arms, wraps a hand around his neck, and then takes his hair in his hand. 

It’s frayed looking, the blonde looks uneven. God what if Brian thinks he’s ugly. Fuck. It’s too long. Why has he had his hair like this forever why didn’t he ever change it. 

He quickly gets up, too fast and feeling dizzy. An impulse creeps under his skin. He grabs the kitchen scissors from the holder on the counter and stumbles into the bathroom. 

Curt stares at himself in the mirror. Is that supposed to be him. What the fuck. 

Then, before he can think, he takes his hair in one hand and chops the ends clean off. It floats to the floor like a molted feather. 

He feels himself go away for a second. When he can see again, it’s all different. His blonde locks are just to his shoulders, almost as short as it had been early 70s. He reminds himself of a young boy. Fucking 5th grader. 

God, he feels stupid. 

He feels tears well up in his eyes. Why. Why Curt. 

He hits himself in the head. Hard. With a closed fist. 

Curt can’t breathe. He heads into the living room and packs a bowl and lights it. 

He lets it burn up his lungs and feels it cloud his head until everything is blurry. 

Then he goes into his bedroom, sets an alarm, and passes the fuck out. 

He’ll face the consequences on the way to the airport.

 

* * *

 

Curt wakes up drenched in sweat. He pulls himself out of bed and throws his shirt and pants on the floor, rifles through his dresser and pulls on whatever he can find. 

He finds his leather jacket draped over the kitchen table and shrugs it on in a daze, lighting a cigarette before he’s even gone from his apartment. 

It’s weird to have a car, that he even drives in this city full of public transport, but he doesn’t want to risk being recognized or even deal with calling a driver.   

It’s taking longer than he wanted it too, he’s speeding. Finally after forever, he makes it into the terminal entrance ten minutes before Brian is scheduled to land. 

He picks at his fingers and bounces on his heels. People glare at him for smoking. 

His baby is minutes away.    


* * *

 

 

Seattle is too cold. That’s the first thought that comes into his head, the second he steps off the plane. After robust traffic and a ten hour flight, during which he had not slept, most of his good mood has been eaten away.  He hasn’t had to fly to anyplace but London for ten years, and he’d forgotten how much he’d hated it.

As lovely as it was to drift above the clouds, and whisk above the sea, it grew increasingly less lovely the more sedatives you had to take. He really regrets dressing nicely instead of dressing for comfort: Now everything is sweaty and wrinkled, including his hollowed face.

_ I swear I looked less horribly old when I left Paris, _ he thinks, pushing through the crowded airport in a bit of a daze. He supposes he’s had a little too much medication. The floor keeps jerking out from under him, and the buzzing of voices and crowds of faces are terribly disorienting. He feels every second that he’ll burst into tears, and wonders blandly what he’ll do if Curt doesn’t show. There seems to be an abundance of bleach-blonde people in Seattle, though most turn out to be tired-looking women holding diaper bags.

 

“Oh, my God.”

He’s sitting alone, and seems to have aged twenty years since the last time Brian saw him.

There are dull blue shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair, now more brown than blonde, is several different lengths in several different places. He’s too far away to see it, but he knows he’s trembling, can tell by the way he’s picking at his hands.

A knot of medicated tenderness lumps in Brian’s throat, and he waves.

Curt’s radiant smile is enough to cause the first sob, and his immediate look of terror brings on the rest. Soon he’s standing in the middle of the floor, weeping.

He feels Curt pull him into his chest, clinging to him so hard that he can’t breathe.

“Hey, hey- what is it?”

He bawls miserably,

“I  _ hate _ flying-“

“I know you do-“

“I  _ hate _ the cold-“

“I know-“

“You’ve cut up your hair…”

 

He pulls back, going from sickly white to pink, his brows knitting together. He sees now that he’s been crying, too- his eyes are pallid and frail.

“Do you…Do you hate it?”

Brian shakes his head, still crying, the lump getting thicker with each sweet thing he does.

“No, no. It’s just, well- It’s a bit, lopsided…”

He notices then that people are staring, some with concern, some with confusion, some with blatant disgust.

Curt notices them as well, and his eyes narrow to slits of blue rage, as they used to before he’d smash up the studio or decimate his bedroom.

Brian reaches out, and catches a lock of his hair between two fingers.

“Let’s go home and I’ll fix it up, just a bit.”

He nods, and his face crumples again. He presses it into his neck, and Brian strokes his back, feeling his lungs begin to burn again.

“I’m so happy you came.” He mumbles.

“Let’s just go home, darling. We’re making a scene.”

Curt laughs, pulling away.

 

* * *

 

 

They don’t say much on the ride back, though occasionally Brian will hear a little hum, and see that Curt is watching him. Obviously, he wants his opinion on the city: He doesn’t want to hurt him, and tell him it’s nothing compared to Paris, so he stays quiet.  _ You are the only interesting part of America,  _ he wants to say,  _ And you always have been. _

Instead he mumbles about different hairstyles he could try, admitting that many of the ones he remembered how to do were very early 70’s chic.

“And this is, well,” He blows a stream of smoke out the open window,

“A new decade.”

“You are so fucking prissy,” Curt mumbles, turning onto a new street,

“What, is that a quote from somebody?”

He shakes his head, shifting so that he can watch the outline of his face, framed against the backdrop of the city. They match each other very well, as well as he feels he matches Paris.

“It’s original.”

“It’s very Wilde.”

“You know nothing of Wilde.”

“I know all those quotes you taught me back in England.”

“Oh yeah? Like what, for example.”

“ _ An artist creates beautiful things, and puts nothing of his own life into them. _ ”

He says it with a deadpan expression, his voice suddenly hollow.

Brian watches him, curiously.

“That’s a good one, I love that one.” He ventures.

“I know.”

Curt turns the radio on.

  
  


* * *

 

 

His apartment is surprisingly small, smaller than expected, and completely wrecked, though Brian can tell he’s tried to clean. Every available surface is jammed with bottles, magazines, CDs, records, and cigarette cartons. Still though, the top of the television has been dusted, and the carpet is vacuumed. Three different, beat-up guitars sit by the bedroom door, glinting in the afternoon sun. He glances around, examining various framed posters and strange little paintings, mainly of lakes and mountains.

Curt shuts the door behind them, having just helped him drag his bags up the steps.

“What the fuck is in these things?” He asks, as Brian crosses to one of the guitars, crouching by it. He reaches out, and brushes his fingers over the chipped black paint, stark in contrast to the fresh strings.

“My books,” He says.

Curt huffs, sinking onto the couch.

“How bored did you think you would be?”

Brian bites his lip, still entranced by the guitar.

“Fairly. You never make good conversation.” He murmurs.

“That’s real nice.”

Silence falls, complete aside from the street noise. Curt is flicking through a magazine, but out of the corner of his eye, Brian can see he’s watching him. He ignores it, chipping off a piece of black paint with his thumbnail.

“What? Haven’t you seen a real one before?”

He sits by it, cross-legged,

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Curt jerks his head in the direction of Brian’s bags, by which sits his own robin’s egg blue guitar.

“I had a guitar like that, once. I bought it from a thrift store for twenty bucks, when I was fifteen.”

“And was it a good one?” He asks, haughty.

“It was just as shitty as yours is.”

Brian lifts the instrument off its stand, and lays it across his lap.

“Didn’t you, erm-? Play this? In the 70’s?”

Curt nods, chewing his lower lip. He rakes a hand through his straggling hair.

“I bought it new, for one of our gigs.”

He pretends not to know exactly which show,

“The one- that last one, in London-“

“ ‘Gay Stunt At Slade Show’, that’s correct.”

Brian smiles faintly, playing a few chords of  _ Baby’s On Fire  _ and singing to himself.

Curt says hoarsely,

“Stop it.”

He smiles, setting the guitar back on the stand.

“Let’s do something about your hair.”

 

His bathroom is barely big enough for the two of them, and certainly isn’t big enough for Brian to do all the fussing he wants to. He’s always liked playing with people’s hair, and hasn’t gotten to style Curt’s since their trip in ’73.

_ It shows,  _ Brian thinks, picking at the tangled white-blonde strands with the old comb he’d been provided with. Curt’s braced against the sink, muttering and hissing as he works out the knots.

“It  _ hurts. _ ” He snaps, as Brian drags a small clump of dead hair free from his scalp.

“Do you wash it and brush it daily?”

He snorts, glaring into the mirror.

“No, Mummy, I don’t,” He says in a chirpy imitation of Brian’s voice, “Don’t take away my desert.”

Brian rips out another clump, tossing it into the trashcan as Curt’s cry echoes off the walls.

“Sadistic little bitch.” He spits.

“See, look how pretty it is now.”

“Just cut it.”

 

Curt insists he’s too cold to take off his shirt, and accuses Brian of just making him do it so he can peep at him. He busies himself by cleaning the scissors, which have bits of old tape and paint stuck to the blades, mixed with bits of blonde hair. Curt lounges against the sink, rubbing a hand over his stubble and talking disdainfully about his adventures while touring. Many of them involve Malcolm getting shitfaced and climbing various objects, so Brian finds them entertaining, but not quite as entertaining as admiring the way Curt’s jeans kept riding down around his hips. He has to be careful not to get too distracted, as he almost makes the mistake of slicing off his earlobe.

 

The entire haircut, once he stops complaining, takes about a half hour.

“It’s  _ prissy, _ ” He moans, running a hand through it approvingly,

“I might as well just shave it.”

Brian smiles, very pleased with himself.

“You’d be all the rage in Paris.”

“You gave me some sort of fancy  _ Vogue _ thing, didn’t you?”

“It’s far too hard rock to be  _ Vogue,  _ Curt.” He says, hurt.

“ _ It’s far too hard rock to be Vogue, Curt.”  _ He throws the towel that had been draped around his shoulders at his face, turning back to admire himself in the mirror.

Brian flings it to the floor, laughing.

“Get in the shower.”

He raises his eyebrows, still playing with his hair.

“That’s awfully forward.”

“You have to take a shower or you’ll get itchy.”

“That’s a good cover up.”

“Just  _ get in. _ ”

Brian turns on the water, checking the temperature with his fingers. 

He can feel Curt looking at him. He’s been doing a lot of that. 

“The water’s warm.” 

Curt hums, and then grabs at him. 

“I don’t really think it’s fair that you’re still completely dressed.” 

“You never think that’s fair, Mister Wild.” 

He gives Brian a smug look, and tugs at the zipper of his trousers. 

“Maybe I don’t.” 

They messily help each other out of their clothes, fumbling and shy. Despite their careless banter, it’d been all fantasies and pining since Paris, and it floats heavy in the air as the shower heats up the room. 

Once they’re under the water it’s hard for Curt to keep his hands away. Brian looks so pretty, his eyelashes thick and clumping together and mouth all wet. 

Finally, he loses his composure and backs him up against the cool tile wall. 

“Well-” 

“I wanna do something.” 

“Um.” 

Curt smirks, and bites his lip, and then before he can be stopped, sinks to his knees, slowly, letting his hands trail down his torso, to his thighs. His eyes land on Brian’s cock. 

 

It’s hard, pink, and quite honestly beautiful. Curt glances up at his face with dark eyes. He looks so shy, mouth parted with lidded eyes. 

 

“I missed this,” He says, voice raspy and smug. He takes it in his hand, holds it there, squeezing lightly. “It’s so  _ pretty _ .” 

 

Brian makes a very small sound, his hips twitch, and he covers his mouth with his hand. 

 

“Oh, baby, none of that.” He reaches up, takes it and places it on his head. “Keep it there.” 

 

“Curt, I can’t, really. I can’t.” 

 

“I finally have you all to myself. I wanna hear everything.” 

 

Then Curt takes the entire length of it into his mouth at once. Brian gasps, swears, and fists his hand tightly into his hair. 

 

“God, puppy-” 

 

He presses down, until his nose is flush against the soft, blonde curls between his legs, and moans as his cock hits his throat. 

 

“Fuck, fuck, Curt.” Brian can feel everything, his breath, and how it vibrates completely around him every time Curt makes any tiny sound. 

 

He starts moving his hips, almost involuntarily, so fast. Curt isn’t ready. A rush of heat floods straight downwards and suddenly he’s so hard it hurts. 

 

He gags and spit leaks out of his mouth. He moans low in his throat, his eyes water and then he can’t stop himself from whining and pushing back into it. 

 

Curt is rocking his hips into nothing, straining his muscles. He takes Brian’s hips in both hands and pushes him back flush against the shower wall. 

 

He won’t be held like that though, Curt is whimpering around his cock and loosens his hold. Brian has both hands in his hair now, and is fucking his throat hard and deep and Curt’s entire body is thrumming and his cock is leaking and bobbing with the movement. 

 

He could come like this. 

  
  
  


“Curt, christ-” He yanks his hair harder and he gasps. Drool spills out of his open mouth. “Christ I can’t take seeing you like that.” 

 

“I love it, I love when you fuck my throat baby.” He says, his voice his broken and wrecked. “So much, so good. Taste so good.” 

 

“Puppy shut up.” Brian is torn between the intense need to cram his cock down Curt’s throat again, and knowing he’s going to come if he does. 

 

Curt licks him, kisses the head, and then stares up at Brian, like he’s thinking very hard about something. 

 

“I don’t want you to come in mouth, not right now.” He says, and stands up very slowly, clutching him as an anchor. 

 

He whines without meaning to at the loss of that thought, but then Curt is in his face again, and he presses himself flush against Brian’s leg. 

 

He’s really fucking hard. Brian suddenly feels like his knees are going to give out. Curt’s hand is trailing slowly behind him, down to his ass. 

 

The water is beating down on them, both of them are soaking wet and flushed. Brian’s overheated but shivering. 

 

The air around them is thick with steam. There’s enough moisture that Curt easily slips a finger inside of him. 

 

“Oh my god, fuck,  _ fuck-”  _ Brian is shaking. 

 

“I can’t properly fuck you in here.” 

 

“Curt, curt-” 

 

He’s near sobbing, mewling into his neck open mouthed as Curt works another finger in. 

 

He starts moving them, slamming them in so fast that Brian can’t take a breath. 

 

“Daddy-” 

 

“That’s it.” Curt reaches over and slams the shower knob down, the water stops. Brian’s suddenly empty and there are tears rolling down his cheeks, mixing with the drops already on his skin.  “Out.” 

 

There’s a firm grip on the back of his neck. His eyes will barely stay open. 

 

Then he’s being manhandled out of the shower and is met something solid and freezing cold across his chest. 

 

Curt has him bent over the sink. All he can do is pant. He’s got him held down so hard, his cock is being crushed against the china. 

 

It’s already pressed against his hole, he’s not wasting any time. Brian can’t even move to try to back onto it. 

 

“You’re mine,” Curt is breathing so hard. “Mine.” 

 

“Yours, daddy, please.” 

 

“Fuck.” He slams it inside with so much force that Brian has to grip the sink to keep his balance. “God you’re fucking tight baby, fucking christ.” 

 

“Daddy, daddy it’s too much. Went too deep.” 

 

Curt pulls out, almost all the way, and then somehow gets it deeper. 

 

“This ass can take it, can’t it?”  

 

“Fuck daddy yes I can take it.” 

 

He starts moving so fast, yanking at Brian’s hair and growling into his ear. He bites the back of his neck and he sobs. His cock is being pressed against the sink and the friction is so much it hurts. 

 

“You’re my dumb little slut. Just loves to be filled up.” 

 

He’s not going to last like this. Curt changes the angle. 

 

“Oh fuck, right there.” 

 

“Christ, baby.” 

 

“Daddy right there.” 

 

“Baby.” 

 

Brian is going to come all over the sink. Curt yanks his head back, 

 

“You’re clenching too tight. Fucking hurting me. Too small.” 

 

“Not my fault you’re so big.” 

 

“Jesus.” Curt bites his neck so hard it feels like it’s bleeding. “Bad kitten.” 

 

“Daddy you’re gonna make me come.” 

 

“Fuck oh my god.” His cock is throbbing and twitching and Brian can feel it. 

 

“You’re gonna shoot it inside of me, aren’t you?” 

 

“Fucking brat.” 

 

“C’mon daddy, fill me up.” 

 

“Baby, don’t, fuck- I can’t.” He reaches down and squeezes Brian’s cock, jerks it shakily between his body and the sink. 

 

He can’t last he can’t do it. He’s going to fucking scream. 

 

Curt’s spilling inside of him, it’s hot and wet and so deep. And Brian is fucking wailing into the sink, coming everywhere. 

 

*

 

Brian’s body feels like jello as he’s being lowered gently onto the bathroom floor. Come is dripping out of him. Curt’s arms are warm and strong around him, and he’s being pulled into his lap. 

 

There’s water everywhere, and their bodies have gone from the soft, clean feeling from bathing to the humid, sweaty feeling of moisture mixing with sweat. Their skin sticks together, as Curt pulls him desperately closer, whispering,

 

“So good for me, baby.” 

 

He’s got his fingers buried in Brian’s still damp hair. 

When he finds the will to make his muscles work, he lifts his head to smile languidly at him. He brings his arms up and drapes them over Curt’s shoulders, and then leans in and presses a soft kiss into his mouth. 

He presses back, humming quietly. 

 

“You’re beautiful.” 

 

Brian makes a small, shy sound and hides his face in Curt’s neck. 

“Stop it puppy.” 

“You are, you’re so beautiful, and such a mess.” 

“It’s your fault.” 

 

“Yeah,” Curt says sweetly, voice low, and laughs. “All my fault.” 

 

Brian lets out a long, long sigh. 

“My tired, messy baby.” 

 

“Curt,” Brian feels small, and dizzy now, like if he wasn’t being held, he’d collapse. 

 

“Wow, I’m inconsiderate, you’re probably jetlagged as hell.” 

 

“I’m fine. Lived through worse.” 

 

Curt sighs, and then he’s being lifted off the ground. 

 

“I’m sure, but I’ve gone and worn you out.” 

 

“Puppy-” 

 

“I’ve got you.” 

Brian is so light, but not as alarmingly weightless as Curt remembered he’d been in the 70s. It’s comforting, to know at the very least, physically he’s healthier. 

He carries Brian into his room, and sets him carefully on the bed. He immediately curls himself up and wiggles under the blankets. 

“Cold?” Curt is kneeling next to him. 

“Mmhm.” 

“Should I get you some clothes?” 

“My bags are _ all the way _ in the  _ living room. _ ” 

He laughs and presses a kiss to his head. 

“You can have something of mine.” 

“Oh…”

Curt gets up, and Brian watches appreciatively as he crosses the room to his closet. 

Then he pulls on a pair of worn sweatpants. 

“Well, I didn’t say  _ you _ should put on clothes.” 

“I’m cold too. I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Brian huffs. 

“You don’t get cold.“

“Okay, baby, whatever you say.” 

Curt steps back over to the bed and hands him a green flannel shirt and a pair of boxers.

He’s already blushing at the thought of putting on his underwear, but he still glares at him. 

“I would never be caught dead with something this hideous on my body.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

Brian makes an annoyed sound, and sits up to put on them on. Curt grins. 

 

“Looks good on you.” 

“Shut up.” 

Everything smells like Curt. Brian feels very shy and fluttery as he climbs under the blankets and wraps around him. 

“I’ve got you, just rest.” 

  
  



	16. Let Love In

Curt starts awake at three in the morning. The numbers are bright and blinding on the digital clock on the nightstand. 

Distorted saturated images swim in his head, paranoia creeps into his chest. 

Brian is still there, curled into him, warm, soft body pressed against him. Curt’s chest feels so tight suddenly. He squeezes his eyes shut, and blinks them open again. 

Dimly lit by the outside streetlights, he’s really there. Chest rising and falling, lips parted, eyes closed lightly. 

He wraps his arms around Brian tightly, and buries his face in his sleep-tousled hair. He smells like roses and lavender, and cloves from his cigarettes. He’s such a solid, comforting weight against him that he almost doesn’t get up, almost doesn’t separate himself. But it’s dark. It’s the middle of the night and he’s starting to feel fear wrapping itself around his neck. 

If he keeps laying here trying to ignore it, it’s just going to get worse. His thoughts are going to mess something up for him. 

He slowly and carefully unravels himself from Brian, he leaves him tucked tightly in with a whisper of a kiss on his cheek. He barely stirs at all. 

 

The cool air is a shock to his skin as he finds his way into the living room. Curt turns on a single lamp near the window and curls himself into a tight corner of his couch, and pulls out his pipe. His fingers shake as he pulls the plastic bag open and tiny sprinkles fall onto the carpet as he tries to pack the bowl. He fishes in the couch for his lighter and can barely even feel his hand. 

Curt lights it, and sucks in until he cant anymore. He keeps it in his lungs until he has to cough it out, violently, covering his mouth with his hand hoping he hasn’t woken up Brian. 

The dreams don’t stop, even when he has shit to do. Like a tour. Or, for example, spend a few days with the man he’s in love with. He curses his brain. Thinks of it like a junkyard with a bunch of sink holes in it, garbage and rusted metal being sucked into a void. 

Curt takes another hit, trying to chase it away, or outrun it, just move away from the hole of all that, but before he can get far enough the sensation of burning hands squeezed around his neck and the pain of his head being slammed into a tile wall is shaking his entire body. 

He’s holding the lighter in his hand with the flame going. He can’t feel anything. His limbs aren’t real. 

Then, he brings the palm of his hand over the fire, and presses it down. 

He yelps, and the lighter falls to the ground as scorching pain shoots through his hand. Fuck. 

He’s a fucking  _ guitarist  _ he’s so dumb. 

His hand is trembling as he stares at it. There’s a giant red wound in the middle of his palm. He moves his fingers and it burns. Curt did that harder than he meant to. Weakly, he brings the pipe back up to his mouth and takes a hit. 

He closes his eyes, and take his fingers, and digs his nails into his palm. He gasps. It  _ hurts _ . Then, suddenly, his hands are being forced apart. Curt jumps. 

He opens his eyes and Brian is directly in front of him, gripping his hands firmly. 

  
  


“Curt.  _ What _ are you doing?” 

He can’t stop himself. Can’t even try. Immediately the sobs rip up his throat. 

“I don’t know.” He’s breathing so hard it hurts his chest. “I don’t know.” 

He can’t meet Brian’s eyes. Can’t even move. 

Gently, he takes his hand, and holds it with his palm facing up. 

“Curt, darling-”

“I don’t know, I’m sorry. I don’t- didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“No, sweetheart. Don’t be sorry.” 

He says nothing.

Brian watches him slip away. Watches his eyes glaze over, as his chest shakes and tears run down his cheeks. 

He climbs onto the couch, and pulls Curt down into his lap. He wraps his arms around him, and squeezes, puts his weight on his shoulders and holds him there. 

It takes only a second for Curt to grip him back tight enough that his knuckles are white. He’s sobbing into his chest, saying something, Brian can barely hear him. 

“I need you to breathe, puppy. Just try for me. Deep breath in, come on.” 

He sobs and shakes. Brian rubs his back until he starts feeling his body rise and fall evenly.

“Where are you, Curt?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Come on, you can do this. Tell me where you are.” 

Brian hasn’t done this in years, and the last time Curt was screaming and cut himself up breaking his guitar against a wall. He’d grabbed him by the shoulders, put weight on him and did whatever it took to ground him until he had control again. This is so much worse. Harder to take and harder to watch than yelling and swearing and destruction. 

Curt’s shoulders are stuttering. All he can feel is the whirring panic in his head and the tightness around his lungs. 

“Curt, I know you can do it, I know you know. Tell me where you are.” 

Brian can feel him trying. He keeps inhaling like he’s about to say something, parts of words bursting out, muffled. He counts, it takes four tries before he can answer. 

“My apartment.” 

Brian sighs with relief. He can help from here, he knows what to do. 

“Good boy, very good.” 

Curt lets out a shaky breath. 

“Do you feel anything?” 

“Hand hurts.” 

“Yes, I know, darling. What else?”

“The couch,” His voice is so soft. “Pants. You.” 

“Good, you’re doing so well. Such a good boy.” 

Curt sighs again, and pushes his face into Brian’s neck. He combs his fingers through his wily hair. 

“Can you squeeze my arm?” 

He does, and then Brian squeezes him back. 

“Good boy. What day is it?” 

There’s a beat of silence. 

“That wasn’t fair of me. Flight and all. It’s Tuesday.” 

“Tuesday.” 

“Yes. Can you tell me what year it is?”

“1985.”

“Very good,” He presses a kiss into his hair. “Do you think you can sit up and talk to me?” 

He does. His eyes are puffy and his face is red, but he can tell that he’s close to being present again. 

Brian looks around them, glances at the coffee table where the pipe sits.

“Were you smoking?” 

Curt nods. Brian sighs again. It’d be easier if he were sober, but of course, he isn’t. 

He gets up, and puts the little bag and pipe into the drawer, to get them out of sight. 

“We’re not doing any more of that right now.” 

Curt just stares at him blankly. 

“Do you want to go back to sleep?” 

“No. No I’m not going back to sleep.” 

“Okay, okay, you don’t need to, sweet boy.” 

 

Brian sits back down next to him, and looks him over. 

He looks absolutely strung out and exhausted. He wonders when the last time he slept through the night and actually rested was. 

Curt leans into him and makes a sound like a plane crashing. 

“What was that?” 

“Dunno.” 

“You’re stoned.” 

“Maybe so. Wanna watch MTV?” 

“What’s MTV?” 

Curt giggles and falls over. 

“You’re so European!” 

 

They stay there, comfortable, for a long time. The shudders subside, eventually, and Curt is calm again, engaging with Brian, making fun of the music videos soaking onto them from the television. A little stupid, drugged, and out of it, but his boy again. 

Despite him trying not to, as the sun rises, Curt drifts off. He slips slowly down so that his head is in Brian’s lap. 

He feels a wave of affection and protectiveness rush through him. He has his fingers combing through Curt’s hair, doesn’t want to move, disturb him after such a long 24 hours. 

There is worry stirring in his gut, his thoughts race. 

What would’ve happened if there was no one here, like there hadn’t been these past few days? He’s angry, for once in his life at Jack, for  _ not _ being with Curt. 

He’d been woken up by him making a pained noise as he  _ burned himself. _

They always tell you it gets easier when you get old, but he hadn’t experienced that. It got sadder maybe, lonely, but hardly went away. He knows that, and knows Curt does too. 

Brian sighs to himself, and looks down at him. He looks small, smaller than he’d ever seemed to him in the old days. He wonders if he’s been eating. 

Breakfast, he decides, when Curt wakes up. 

For now, though, Brian can’t just sit here. His legs are falling asleep, and he’s restless. 

He picks up his head, gingerly, and gets up. He sets him down onto the couch.    
He wrinkles up his face, readjusts, and then settles back in, exhaling deeply. 

Brian smiles. He goes to the suitcase and gets his book. 

 

* * *

 

Brian is sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. It’s the smell of it that brings Curt in from the living room. 

He’s all rugged and ruffled, stumbling sleepily and stretching. His shirt rides up. He feels his eyes on his stomach and he smiles. 

“Good morning, babe.” 

“Hello,” Brian murmurs, and sets his mug down. He has that art book open in front of him, and a shy little smile on his face. “I’m glad you got some rest.” 

Curt crosses the floor and leans down to kiss his cheek. 

“Me too, is there coffee left?” 

“Not all of us can drink an entire pot in one sitting.” 

“Asshole.” 

He shuffles into the kitchen, bottoms of his sweatpants dragging on the floor. He reaches up and gets an oversized mug that reads “Greetings from Michigan” in swirly text, against a grainy picture of a forest, and fills it to the brim. The steam is rising from it is illuminated by the sun filtering gently through the window. 

“Your hair looks good. I did it well.” Brian says, admiring him as he leans against the counter in the soft light. 

He smiles, touches it, and takes a sip of his coffee. 

“I was thinking,” Brian crosses his legs and turns to face him in his seat. “Is there some place we can find decent breakfast food? I’ve been craving crepes, I know I’ll just be disappointed but I thought it’d be nice to go out this morning.” 

Curt glances at the clock, it’s only nine, they have plenty of time. He likes the idea of taking him out. 

“Yeah, we can do that.” He looks Brian up and down, he’s already dressed, his hair is done, he looks charming and handsome as always. “I just need to get dressed. Maybe we could go downtown or something too? There’s some cool shit, if you’re in the mood. Books, records.” 

“That sounds lovely, darling.” 

They smile at each other for a moment, and then Curt clears his throat and looks down at his feet. 

“I suppose, uh, I’ll get ready then.” 

“Comb your hair and brush your teeth.” 

“Sure thing,  _ mother. _ ”

 

* * *

 

“Are you looking for like, actual quality or-” 

“Curt, honestly, I just want something I can put strawberries on.” 

He laughs and grins. They’re driving down a narrow hill of a street, looking for parking. It’s a decently warm day for Seattle, but Brian is wrapped up tightly in a thick jacket. He has his knees folded to his chest in the seat of the station wagon, like a little boy. 

The college radio is on. Traffic zooms by and city shops pass in a whir of color. 

“Well, I’m more of a shitty diner man myself. There’s a whole section of the menu at this one place where you put any assortment of sugary syrup fruit on your breakfast.” 

“Excellent. It’s decided.” 

Curt is wearing ridiculous aviator sunglasses that Brian finds charming in a way he really shouldn’t. It’s a disguise, apparently, but a very poor one. He’s wearing the pin on the lapel of his jacket, still, and he can’t help but glance at it now and again, as it glistens in the sun. He has on jeans that hug his ass more tightly than his usual ones do. Brian has a sneaking suspicion this is on purpose. 

“This joint also has smoking inside and Daddy needs a cigarette.” 

_ “Excuse me?” _

Curt just laughs, evilly. 

“Are you even real? Why do you say things like that?” 

“I’m a dreamboat and everything I say is genius.” 

“Sure, darling. Not stupid at all.” 

“Not stupid  _ at all.” _

 

They park a block away, after Curt fretting over whether someone is going to steal his precious Carmen and take her away.    
Why anyone would name a brown station wagon Carmen is beyond Brian, but he takes his hand and assures him the car will be fine. 

They make it inside _Arlo's_  , a tiny little mom and pop family restaurant that’s nearly completely dead. The host is a small old man with friendly crinkly eyes who greets them warmly and calls Curt “son”. 

Bizarrely, Curt smiles, delighted and seemingly shy. Brian watches in wonder. The man’s name also Curt, apparently, and he frequents this place specifically because he likes to talk with this gentleman. 

 

They’re seated at a frayed booth by a window. Curt greets the server by her name, Julie, and asks immediately for coffee. 

“You haven’t had enough this morning?” 

“Do you even know me, Brian?” 

He laughs, they meet eyes. 

“You’ve really mellowed out in your old age, Mister Wild.” 

“First of all, I’m thirty fucking five years old. And second of all, the world is a loud and aggressive place, and I’m tired of everything being loud and aggressive y’know? Why shouldn’t I be nice to people and enjoy things, it’s good for you, makes it all easier.” 

Brian smiles, widely. 

“I agree, completely. It’s just strange, to see you interact with people that way, I think it’s very nice.” 

Curt nods, and takes a swig of coffee. 

“Hey, do you know your accents changed?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Yeah, I don't know, you can tell you’ve been in france. How you pronounce your e’s and r’s with some things.” He’s looking at him fondly. “It’s very cute.” 

“Oh.” Brian blushes and looks down. 

“It’s just cool, how places leave a mark on people.” 

“Yes.” 

 

Brian gets strawberry crepes, and complains about how they don’t compare to the real deal, but he clears his plate and drinks a glass of orange juice. He almost spits it everywhere when Curt refers to himself as “Daddy” for the second time that day. His leg brushes Brian’s under the table, and smiles around a mouthful of omelette. 

 

Next, they’re headed to a used record store called “Singles Going Steady”. Curt wants to get this  _ New Orde _ r record he doesn’t own. 

It’s only a few blocks away, so they walk. Brian is very cold, Curt wraps his arm around his waist. It’s hard to walk that way, unsteady, but he leans into it. 

In this part of the city, with rainbow flags pasted on shop windows, and hanging on buildings, he doesn’t feel nervous about hanging on him, and it’s wonderful. 

In some way, it feels like they’re teenagers falling in love for the first time, and going on a first date. 

 

The store is tiny and smells like a basement. The owner is blasting something loud with lots of yelling. There’s a poster of Curt on the wall. 

 

Brian gives him a glance and mouths “Really?” and he smirks. 

 

A group of teenagers walk in, they’re all wearing different shades of denim jackets with denim jeans, covered in patches and pins. It reminds Brian a bit of old glam looks. He sighs, nostalgic, and flips through a bin absently. 

 

There’s a commotion. He looks up to see the kids all whisper-shouting to each other, and suddenly dread fills his stomach and he can’t breathe. 

 

Curt must not notice, because he announces that he’s making his purchase. Brian only nods. He feels an intense need to  _ get out. _

 

He pretends to keep looking through albums when one of them approaches him. 

 

“Um, excuse me, sir. I’m sorry to be rude, but are you Brian Slade?” 

 

He looks up. The kid has wild, tousled curly hair and eyeliner on. He looks eager, expectant. He looks down and notices with amazement a  _ Ballad of Maxwell Demon  _ pin on his jacket. 

 

Brian feels a lump forming in his throat. 

 

“Well, um. Yes.” 

 

The boy’s eyes light up and he’s visibly vibrating. 

 

“Oh, wow, man, holy shit, um. It’s really an honor to meet you. I’ve discovered your music this year and it’s changed my life so much for the better and I think you’re just really a genius and just wow. Wow. I’m sorry I’m rambling um-” 

 

Brian feels like someone is pumping his heart full of air and it’s about to burst. 

 

“May I ask your name?” 

 

“Oh! Oh it’s Andrew.” 

 

“Andrew,” He says, gently, and reaches down and takes his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, as well.” 

 

Andrew’s entire face turns bright pink, and he gasps. Brian smiles warmly. 

Then, suddenly, Curt is by his side with a paper bag in tow. 

“Everything okay?” He asks, very quietly. 

Brian turns to him and smiles radiantly. 

“Yes, darling, everything is fine.” 

Andrew looks between the two of them. 

“Holy shit!” 

Curt looks nervous. Brian takes his hand. The kid just freaks out even more, and his friends are being very loud a few feet away. 

“I think we should be going, but it has really been wonderful to meet you.” He gives his hand one last squeeze, and then lets it go. 

  
  
  



	17. Purring Cars And Pouring Rain

Brian is glowing all the way back to the car. He is quiet, his eyes are big and blue, glistening and far away. 

Curt wants to ask him what he’s thinking. He remembers when they met backstage at the theater and how he had shut down simply hearing the name  _ Slade. _

He looked delighted and maybe incredulous in the record store. It was amazing to see, but he isn’t sure what that means. 

As they pull onto the highway, Curt finally says, 

“How are you feeling?” 

Brian looks over at him with a shy smile. 

“A bit strange, and surprised, but nice.” 

Curt glances from him to the road, concerned. 

“That’s good then, I think.” 

“Yes.”  

He seems oddly mute about the whole thing, and he’s not sure what to make of it. He hasn’t been around this new Brian enough to understand his silences or what they mean, so he doesn’t push it. He does wonder, though. 

* * *

 

 

Curt tries, he does. He tries really hard. He doesn’t want Brian to think he’s addicted. It’s not addictive anyway, it’s just medication. It’s a way to ease things, and he needs easing. 

He doesn’t want Brian to think he’s any more pathetic or washed up than he already does, but by the time they’re back near his apartment the buzzing in his head has gotten loud enough to make him incredibly anxious and he feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin. 

He turns off, and starts in the opposite direction. 

 

“I need to make a stop somewhere.” 

 

“Alright.” Brian says, looking at him oddly. 

 

Curt is quiet for a minute. He doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Really doesn’t. And he knows that if he says something about it and feels this way about it, it means there’s probably something wrong. He tries so hard to just shut up. 

 

“Curt,” Brian says, gently. “You can tell me if there’s something on your mind.” 

He knows him too well, the real him. And it’s not fair. 

 

“I just-okay, like-” He sighs. “I don’t want you to think I have a problem or something.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

“I need to pick up like, two grams maybe.” 

 

“Oh, I see.” 

 

“It’s not a big deal, I promise. My heads just kinda,” He gestures to his head with a vague hand movement. “Y’know? I’m-It’s nothing to do with you.” 

Brian just looks at him, reading his face like he’s trying to decipher some scholarly journal. 

Curt keeps his eyes on the road. He quickly reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it shakily. 

 

“You don’t have to feel like I’m judging you, Curt. I’m not. I’m just concerned.” 

“Well, there’s nothing to be concerned about. So don’t be.” 

He rolls down his window, the wind blows his hair around wildly. His face is stone. 

Brian shivers. 

 

He knows it isn’t the same, by any means, and he knows this is Curt self medicating. He’s not stupid. All the same, he can’t help but think of the days when he was “clean”. As terrible as it all was, that was self medicating too. Brian thinks of him shooting up on the bathroom floor at four in the morning. He’d gotten on his knees, immediately in tears, shaking him and begging him not to go. That was the first time they’d rushed him to the hospital. That was the first time Brian had almost lost him. 

 

The memory makes him nauseous. Suddenly, so overwhelmingly, he wants to reach out and touch him. To pull him close and not let him go anywhere, beg him not to do that to him ever again. He knows he’s being ridiculous. Weed isn’t going to kill him, no matter how much he smokes all day, every day. 

 

Brian just wants to beg him never to get into any of that again. He’s terrified that if things were to get bad enough there’s a chance he could, always was, even in the last ten years, anytime his thoughts strayed to Curt. He wants to beg him not to leave him. 

 

There’s no way to forget the sight of someone you love growing pale and slipping away from his body, paler and farther as the seconds go by, the panic and the waiting, too close, far too close. 

 

He dares to look at him again. He’s somewhere else, deep in thought. He’s tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. Brian’s chest feels tight. He’s beautiful, he can’t let him go again, and he realizes with some strange sense of certainty that there’s no coming back from this now. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two hours later, they’re back at Curt’s place. Rain is beating against the windows. He’s packing a bowl, now. He brings it to his mouth, Brian watches as he holds his breath, trapping the smoke in his lungs for as long as he can. 

 

“Do you want any?” 

 

Brian hesitates. He shouldn’t encourage this, but maybe just a little to ease the stress and the worry. 

 

He crosses the floor and sits next to him on the couch. 

 

“Don’t think I’m condoning your reliance.” 

 

“I’m not reliant!” 

 

Brian gives him a withering look, takes a hit, and passes the green and blue glass pipe back to Curt. 

 

He huffs and slouches down. 

 

“It’s not that I don’t understand it, I do. I just, honestly I know your history. I know you have an addictive personality. And don’t even try to tell me marijuana isn’t a gateway drug, Curt. I know those people are quite often same people who have access to coke, molly and heroin and all those things we both had to beat and work at it for years.” 

Curt is quiet, eyes downcast. He takes another hit. 

“I-I just,” Brian rubs his eyes and rakes a hand through his hair. His voice is very quiet now. “I nearly watched you die so many times, puppy.” 

 

Curt looks up at him and meets his eyes. The blue is rimmed with red. His lip is quivering, so slightly he almost can’t see it, but Brian could never help but take in every detail of his face. 

 

“Brian-” His voice is hoarse, and it breaks with every word. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I’m so sorry I did that to you I-” 

 

Brian reaches over and takes the pipe from him, and sets it down on the coffee table. He takes him in his arms and squeezes him tightly. 

 

“Ssh, you’re okay sweet boy. Everything’s alright.” 

 

The sobs shake his shoulders, and he pushes his face into his neck. Brian wonders briefly if all he has the ability to do is make him cry in his living room. 

 

“Just stay with me, everything's alright. Just stay.”

 

Curt looks up at him, and cradles his face in his hands. He leans up, and crashes their lips together with such urgency that Brian is knocked backwards. 

 

He straddles him, shoving him down into the couch and kissing him with bruising force. Brian gasps and moans into his open mouth, he fists a hand in his hair and pulls. 

 

Curt growls, he grinds his hips into him hard enough that his zipper digs into him. Brian gasps and squirms. 

 

His breath is hot against his skin as he kisses down his neck, and sucks hard just below his jaw and bites hard, and it  _ hurts.  _

 

“Curt, oh fuck.” 

 

He works his way back up, and nips at his ear. 

 

“I want you, baby.” 

 

“Daddy.” 

 

“Fuck, don’t.” 

 

“Daddy  _ please.”  _

 

Suddenly, Curt is off him and pulling him up with so much force it nearly knocks the wind out of him. 

“Little slut.” 

Brian whimpers and shakes as he’s pulled to his feet. Then he’s kissing him, biting his lip, as he backs him into the bedroom, a firm grip on his hip. 

He shoves him down on the bed, and climbs over him. 

“Look at you, my little princess. All laid out for me, such a pretty little thing.” 

Brian pants, his face flushed. 

“Daddy-” 

“Whore.” 

“Daddy no don’t, can’t-” 

“Look at that pretty mouth, hanging open like that.” Curt reaches down and squeezes him through his trousers, then he tugs at his zipper. “I wanna see you.” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” 

He tugs his trousers and underwear down, manhandling him to get them off. His grip is so hard that it hurts. 

Then he reaches up and lifts his own shirt over his head. Brian gasps. 

“Daddy,” He whimpers, voice strained and quiet. “You look like a god.” 

Curt closes his eyes and tilts his head back, sucking in a harsh breath. 

“Jesus, baby.” 

Brian’s face is bright pink, he’s wiggling, hiding behind his hand but not quite able to take his eyes off of Curt. 

He reaches over, and pulls a bottle out of the nightstand drawer. He’s obviously wrecked, can’t even keep his eyes open fully, they keep fluttering closed when he looks at Brian. 

“Look at that beautiful cock,” He whispers, breathless. “And that cute little ass.” 

“Puppy-” 

The sound of the cap opening is a loud pop, Brian watches him squirt the liquid onto his fingers. He rubs his hands together and keeps his eyes on him. He looks dangerous, almost predatory. Sometimes stirs low in Brian’s stomach. 

“I wanna ruin you, baby.” 

“Fuck, oh christ.” 

Then he reaches down and presses two wet fingers against his hole. Brian squirms and rocks his hips into the touch. 

“Want it in please, please. Something in me.” 

“God, okay, gonna work you open.” 

He pushes his fingers in, slow. 

“Oh fuck. Fuck.” 

“Bet you’re sore.” 

“Daddy fucked me too hard.” 

“Poor thing.” He moves his fingers out, and slams them back in. 

“Fuck-oh my god-daddy, daddy hurts.” 

“I’m gonna put another one in.” 

“No, no, can’t.” 

“Yes you can. I’m a lot bigger than this and you know it.” 

WIthout taking them out all the way, Curt squirts more lube onto his hand and gets three fingers in, and starts moving them, fast, before Brian can even adjust.

“You’re a little size queen, just love to have your hole stuffed full.” 

“Yes, yes-oh god. It burns. Daddy.” 

The sound of Curt slamming his fingers in is wet and loud and nearly too much to bear. 

“I’m gonna put it in now, baby.” 

“Daddy, daddy, yes- yes please.” 

“You’re so desperate for it.” 

He looks up at Curt with big glossy blue eyes, and a little smile creeps onto his flushed face. 

“I worship your cock, daddy.” 

“Oh fuck- christ, shut your filthy mouth.” 

“I worship your cock, it’s all I think of. Just wanna be fucked. Just want it in me. Give it to me.” 

“Christ.” Curt takes it out, and rubs lube and his own come over it until it’s slick. 

“C’mon daddy, give it to me.” 

He slams it in without a warning, and Brian sobs and writhes. 

“God you’re fucking tight. So fucking small.” 

“Curt-” 

“Fuck, just take it.” 

“Yes, yes-” 

Curt reaches down and wraps his fist around Brian’s cock. 

“No, no oh god I can’t no fuck-” 

“You can.” 

He jerks it with the rhythm and Brian is keening and whimpering. 

“I won’t last at all like that, I won’t- daddy you’re so big I can’t.” 

Curt is embarrassingly close himself, watching his face and feeling his tight little ass around his cock is too much. It’s crushing him. He jerks him faster, and slams deeper inside. 

“Oh fuck daddy right there-oh god.” 

“Yeah baby.” 

“I can’t, daddy-I can’t-” 

“My baby.” 

“Yours, god, fuck.” 

“I’m gonna come inside.” 

“Fuck.” 

“I’m gonna shoot it so deep inside you.” 

“Daddy I worship you I want it I want your come.” 

“You want it?” 

“Yes so bad.” 

“Then come for me, all over my hand.” 

A second later, he does, spilling everywhere, and so hard he can’t see. He screams, and he feels hot, sticky come spilling inside him.

 

* * *

 

Brian’s muscles are weak, he’s lying there limp. And then Curt is pulling out, wiping himself off, and settling down next to him. 

He bashes his head into Brian’s arm, and so he opens his eyes and looks down at him. 

“I fucking love it when you scream like that.” He whispers. 

Brian makes an exasperated sound, and kisses him softly on the forehead. He combs his fingers through his hair. Less than a minute later, Curt is snoring into his shoulder. 

He sighs, and surrenders to the warmth for a while. He knows Curt is exhausted all the time, and knows now that if he does sleep, it’s restlessly, and that the only way he can even relax enough to close his eyes is if he smokes. 

And he wonders how he ever survived the  _ Dream On _ tour only two weeks ago. 

Brian enjoys the comfort of his weight against him for as long as he can before he starts feeling sticky and itchy, and separates himself to shower, and wash all the sweat and spunk out of his system. 

He changes into something comfortable and simple and heads into the kitchen to put on some tea, a transitional habit he’d never kicked, and most likely never would. 

It’s still raining, but softer now. Drops of water run down the glass of the window lazily. 

He sets himself up at the table with a book and his cup steeping, and then he phone rings. 

Annoyed, he quick picks it up. That better not have woken Curt up. 

“Hello?” 

“Oh. Hello.” 

“Who is this?”    
“Jack.” 

Brian feels something acidic bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. 

“Ah, _ Jack _ , Hello.” 

“I was calling to check in. Is he around?” 

“He’s asleep.”

“Isn’t it the middle of the afternoon over there?” 

Brian sighs sharply. 

“Yes. He doesn’t sleep very much, so.” 

“I see.” 

There’s a period of very tense silence. 

“So you just left him in this state.” 

“Pardon me?” 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. You abandoned him like this. Aren’t you supposed to be his friend?” 

“We didn’t abandon him-” 

“Then what would you call this? Leaving someone who obviously has a hard time caring for himself and being alone on the other side of the world from you?” His heart is hammering in his chest, seething with anger. 

“Brian, Malcolm and I have a life here. We can’t just sit around and supervise a grown man forever.” 

Suddenly he’s so tempted to tell Jack about how he found him in the middle of the night, burning himself with a lighter and digging his nails into the blister, gone from his head in a panic. But that’s not his to tell. 

“I think you’re selfish. I think if you really cared for him you’d want him safe.” 

“Well.” 

“You don’t deserve him.” 

And with that, he slams the phone onto the hook. 

  
  



	18. My My, Smile At Least

Their last day together is spent happily, though Brian can feel himself slipping away from conversations, drifting in and out of moments with him. He hates himself for it, hates the concerned line that appears between Curt’s brows, how he strains himself to find something interesting to talk about when he doesn’t respond. Though he wants every minute to be as clear and bright as the others, he can’t deny the truth of what’s coming.

“You will be back, won’t you?” Curt asks quietly, at the end of a long day stumbling around the city and arguing about the artistic importance of Nancy Sinatra. 

Brian stares out at the bleary street before him, his eyes languidly chasing a red raincoat through the gloom.

“Of course I’ll be back, darling. I just really dread leaving at all.”

“It won’t be too bad,” He says, bracingly, “I’ll call you every night.”

He snorts, staring down at his hands.

“You’ll have to call me at a different number. I’m visiting my mother- my father’s just passed.”

“Oh, _fuck._ Right. So you’re going back to London?”

“Yes, for two days.”

“Christ.”

Curt glares at the steering wheel, dull anger etched into his face. After a moment it softens and fades, and he glances back to him.  

“Are you okay?”

He’d drifted away again, in those ten seconds of quiet, and has to shake himself back to reality. Cramped, dark London fades away, as does his mother’s sallow face and a parade of black umbrellas beneath barren trees.

His eyes are tense and blue, so wonderfully blue. Brian feels his jaw clench. His stomach is twisting and churning: Sweat has begun on his upper lip.

“I don’t want to go back for it. Does that make me awful?”

“No. I wouldn’t go back. I haven’t gone back.”

He leans his head against the rest, clasping his hands across his chest. Curt shifts so that he’s a bit closer, his eyes boring into the side of his face.

“You know, I’m not even worried about the funeral, or seeing him,” Brian murmurs, imagining his father’s familiar face dull and waxy and misted with evening fog, “I just don’t want to see her again. I don’t want to hear what she’s got to say. I don’t want anything to do with it. I’m tired of being a useless lazy waste, Curt.”

“You aren’t, Brian-“

He quiets him with a look, and feels his throat tighten slightly.

“When I got dropped by Bijou Music I went back and I nearly killed myself, having to be around them both all the time. He wouldn’t speak to me, but she did.”

Curt grunts, and an age-old expression of contempt crosses his features. He ponders for a moment on what to say, lips twitching, then spits,

“Fuck her.”

“I’m afraid my coming home will upset her- tender constitution.”

“You mean she might throw a book at your head?”

Brian sighs, sharply,

“Or worse, tell me something about myself that I can’t stand. I don’t fear the books anymore.”

“You aren’t sixteen. You can just leave. You can just come back here- if it gets to be too much, I’ll just come get you.”

He gnaws on the thumbnail of his free hand, feeling slight tremors from the cold run up his legs. Curt had turned the car off. A million confessions brush against the back of his throat, ones he’s sure he’s already made, drunk and crying on the sand. He tries to pick through them, tries to decide which story he should relay to make his point. But there is no point. Nothing will change the fact that he’s going back.

“Every second I lived there they wanted me out, and every time I left they hated me for going. I swore when I was nineteen I’d never go home, but I had to. When I left again for Paris I said it again and I really, really thought I meant it that time Curt, I really thought-“ He isn’t crying, exactly, but he’s trying to- there are just no tears. Already the oppressive sense of doom is upon him, so familiar that he can’t be afraid of it. The tips of his fingers are numb.

“Baby, baby,” He leans over, giving him a dry kiss,

“Just call her and say No.”

“But I can’t. My father is dead. I’m her son and she needs me.”

“She has John.”

He snorts, and pulls back, away from his strong grip.

“What use is John?”

He says nothing, but continues to stare at him. Brian can tell he’s desperate to find some way to fix it, and so does him the service of looking away.

Silence falls again. The rippling ocean rises, as does a field of clouds. He sees his childhood bedroom, always a point of ridicule, littered with books and records and trash.

_ She will have taken down my pictures, _ he thinks, seeing in his mind’s eye the tiny photograph of Little Richard that he’d once ordered from a catalogue, and the crumpled black and white features of Lennon/McCartney above his bed.

_ Must the wallpaper be as tarnished as it was in our last house, Thomas? _

She’d always been bothered by a particular one of Elvis that he’d gotten when he was really young, one that his aunt had bought him and given to him that summer he spent in Kensington. In it, Elvis was pouting, and swinging his hips, and Brian had been so overcome with it that he’d spent hours transfixed. She must’ve known there was something amiss with his fascination, something that went deeper than the idolatry his other friends showed. His father was disinterested in their lives until problems were staring him in the face, but she always knew.

 

“I believe we should go inside.” He says, his voice disjointed, as though he were speaking the sentence in a new language.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Curt climbs out of the car, into the rain

* * *

 

  
  


His hair is lying, frazzled, across his face. His chest lifts slowly and steadily, one leg kicked out from beneath the sheets. His arm is draped over Brian’s stomach, soft and loose. It tightens as he pulls away.

“Already?”

Brian sighs, rolling back over and pressing his mouth to Curt’s. He’s mumbling, still half asleep, pulling at his arm in a childish, adorable way.

“Wouldn’t an early start be best?”

“Not for me.” He bites his collarbone, trying with all his might to haul him back into bed. Brian resists.

“My whole body aches.”

His grip relaxes for a moment before he’s pushing himself up, burying his face in the crook of his neck and wrapping his arms around him.

“Didn’t you sleep?”

“Not well, no.”

“You’re cold.”

“Seattle is cold.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I am really very tired.”

Twilight, thin and gray, seeps through the drawn curtains and casts a gleam across Curt’s eyes.

“Stay here. I won’t bother you.”

Needlelike tears pierce his lungs, and he struggles to smile.

“Come with me?”

“Brian…”

“I know, I know.”

He pulls away and gets to his feet, shivering badly, so that he can barely get on his slippers. The hollow of his neck prickles where Curt’s cheek had lain.

“I’m going to go take a sedative.”

 

* * *

 

 

The airport is much less crowded than it had been last time, though somehow that makes it worse. Everything seems so dull, so quiet. The rain that had begun yesterday hasn’t stopped, and the mixture of false interior lighting and misty gloom is unbearable to him.  _ London will be awful. _

At his side, Curt is a dark, haggard ghost: dressed almost entirely in black, with shaggy, damp hair and eternal purple marks beneath his eyes. He’s dutifully pulling one of Brian’s suitcases behind him, his gaze flickering far away from them both. The numbness draws ever closer, mixing with the sedative to become a white fog haze of nothingness. He’d forgotten how terrible separation was, and remembered dumbly how they’d clung to each other in the old days, Brian frequently skipping trips that would force them to be apart, and Curt refusing to tour with The Rats until after they’d split.

He looks at him now with infinite tenderness, wishing the Curt he was leaving behind could be remembered as some sort of golden haven compared to the dankness of London. No, the memory of his confused, depressed expression would not make his mother’s house more pleasant.

They sit together until he has to board, still as statues. Brian hums listlessly to himself, old songs that he knows Curt will recognize: It’s nice to earn a half smile, despite everything.

“No, not that one, I hate that one.”

“It’s The Beatles!”

“Do  _ Personality Crisis. _ ”

“I  _ loathe  _ Polly Smalls.”

“Because she said you were a hack in  _ Creem. _ ”

“Because she has absolutely no talent.”

Curt huffs, so he continues humming.

 

_ Half of what I say is meaningless, _

_ But I say it just to reach you, Julia _

_ Julia, Julia, ocean child, calls me _

_ So I sing a song of love, Julia _

 

Funnily enough, it had been a song his mother had liked, back when Brian used to “force his music on the family.” His father had never liked any of it- not once had they ever agreed on one song. It wasn’t jazz, oh, superior jazz, if he had to play music must he play this rock n roll?

He actually laughs, remembering being caught in his room, at two AM, buried in learning  _ Paint It Black  _ and having lost track of time. He’d been forced to move out shortly after.

Curt is looking at him, his expression lighter, if a bit confused. Brian opts to hum  _ The Rolling Stones  _ instead.

  
  


“So this is goodbye?” He asks gently, as Brian rises along with a few other bedraggled-looking individuals. Apparently, this was a good day for no-one.

“For now, darling.”

He bites his lip and turns away, a mat of hair shielding his face from view. He seems to be caught between clinging to him and avoiding touching him completely.

He bridges the gap, leaning in to give him a light kiss. His lips are salty, wet. Brian’s heart feels swollen and bruised, throbbing against his ribs.

“I love you, I’ll be back. My hand to God, I won’t stay in England.”

“I know that,” He snaps, drawing away,

“But what if you want to stay in Paris?”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Mm.”

“It’s dreadfully sad and boring there without you. I know from experience.”

He brushes the hair back from his face, the corner of his lip twitching.

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I love you.”

“I love you too, and hey-“

He catches Brian’s shoulder and pulls him backward, causing him to stumble.

“If you can’t take it just leave, okay?”

He’s quiet for a long time, staring at the gleam of his boots.

“Yes. Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I have to get on the plane.”

“ _ Brian. _ ”

“I’ll leave if it’s feasible,” He says, shaking him off.

“Just know I’m not afraid to come and get you. I love you.”

He says it harshly, like an insult.

“I love you too. Goodbye, Curt.”

“Goodbye.”

His steps away, letting Brian go.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. The hours crawl by, on tiny, scraping legs. The scenery beneath him changes from cloud, to gray snaking city, to cloud, to thick greenery and tiny houses, to flat black-blue water. He wonders where all the panic he’d felt last night has gone: it has turned into some other feeling now, a sludgy sickly kind of exhaustion brought on by medication and giving up. Memories chase their tails inside his head, while worries creep up between them. Who will be at the funeral? There are so many people he can never see again. He hasn’t attended a family function since 1968, suppose he doesn’t know anyone anymore? Would that be better or worse? He’d missed John’s wedding due to his American tour in ’73, he’d surely have to meet his wife. Did he have any children? He’d be expected to know that. Brian furrows his brow, trying to recall, but he soon finds he can’t even remember John’s wife’s  _ name _ , let alone any offspring. It was something completely inane, something that went with John- Jane- Janine- Julie-

They did have children, they had a little girl. Or did they? Or was that his cousin? Suppose his mother wanted him to speak at the funeral. Suppose he would be forced to recall a positive memory about his father, something to tell Janine-Jane-Julie to cover up the fact that she shouldn’t have attached herself to this depressed, alcoholic strain of individuals.

Would anyone be picking him up at the airport? Probably not. They would be busy cleaning, or cooking, or doing whatever else. It wasn’t like he didn’t know the way home. He wonders, watching a pink crest of cloud drift by, who will ask about Maxwell Demon first.

  
  



	19. The Stars Look Very Different Today

It had been John who’d met him at the airport, slim and fair and swallowed whole by an oversized black parka. Upon seeing him Brian’s heart had leapt in terror, as he had become, in his late middle age, an exact replica of the late Bernard Stoningham. He possessed the same slender, skeleton face, the same watery, colorless eyes: The same long, groping hands that had then reached out to him, the kid brother, pulling him in for a tight and uncomfortable squeeze.

“Good to see you, Tommy.”

“Yes, quite.”

“Did you have a nice flight?”

Dense, long, sleepless hours, spent huddled beneath the numb blanket of sedatives or fighting the panic that sparked every time they lifted. Eternal stretches of time spent watching the flat ocean glitter. Near the end, the parade of faded memories that had floated out in front of him like some sort of terrible film.

He’d nodded.

“Good, good. Well. Mother is waiting for us.”

 

John had helped him get his luggage out to the car, which was hidden in a thick, tingling, swirling fog that sent waves of exhaustion down Brian’s spine. He could barely see anything in the parking lot where they stood, but could hear the rushing street beyond- the traffic still racing by, despite the blindness of the drivers. The air smelled dirty and wet, but familiar, more familiar than even the sight of his brother’s face.

Sitting in the car, a magazine in her lap, was a woman that John introduced as Jill Stoningham. She was a petite, copper-haired person, with premature wrinkles and heavy, wet eyes. She wore quite a lot of thick pink gloss on her mouth, and said she was very happy to meet him, and was so sorry for his loss.

“Thank you, Jill. It has certainly been a difficult time.”

He’d sat in the back, next to an empty, food-stained car seat. He’d asked how their mother was.

“Still kicking,” John had announced, over the tinny sound of  _ Band On The Run  _ which was seeping from the radio.

“She misses you quite a lot. She’s been talking about your visit since you called.”

Brian’s eyes, so heavy, had flickered shut.

“Jet lagged, Thomas?” Jill had asked cheerfully.

“Awfully so, Jill.” He’d spat.

After that, they left him alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Suburban Birmingham hadn’t changed much in the seven or so years since he’d visited. In fact, it had changed so little that in his sedative-laced state he kept forgetting what year it was. Each time he blinked awake from his eternal half-doze, he believed he was some other version of himself, caught up in some past excursion. Sixteen years old and headed to his friend Charlie’s house for the afternoon, nineteen years old and headed to his first flat to meet his girlfriend, twenty-seven years old and being dragged to the market by his depressed, disgusted mother. Frequently he would look at the silvery gleam of John’s head and panic, for just an instant, wondering where he’d been and how his father had found him. Already, this place was separating him from his own mind, hanging a curtain between him and reality. As the car crept along, seeming so slow in comparison to the rest of traffic, he had the sensation of being lowered into a well.

  
  


The ghostly fog trailed them from the airport right into town, spreading itself out over everything he recognized so that it seemed like a mirror image of itself. This was the Birmingham of the underworld, the Birmingham of the apocalypse. The nearly empty sidewalks, the gray and sagging brick, the orange twinkle of the streetlights that couldn’t quite cut through the gloom: All an omen, a premonition of some terrible thing that was coming towards him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the radio, listening to some sort of pop slush that Jill seemed to be enjoying. Seattle rose out of the darkness in front of him, sunny and stark in comparison to this place. There was Curt, poised by an open window, a cup of coffee steaming in his hand. There was Curt, at the airport, gradually fading to black. Brian had not cried since the plane took off, but he now he felt hot tears burning in his chest. He would call him tonight, from the hotel. He would call him and beg him to come get him. He would call him and-

“Now isn’t that a sight, Thomas?” John said jovially, startling his tears away. Out the window, on his left, he saw a squat, beige building, lightless and abandoned. A wooden sign proclaimed:

_ Stoningham Tiling. _

 

A ridiculous urge to laugh crept up his throat so he disguised it as a sob, burying his face in his chalky hands.

“Oh, Thomas!” Exclaimed Jill.

“Come now, Tom.” John reprimanded, but Brian continued, laughing and laughing until the tears fell, and his last ounce of strength deserted him.

He was quiet for the rest of the ride, until they pulled up outside a faintly blue, perfectly prim house, where by the mailbox stood a short woman in a yellow mackintosh.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As children, Brian and John had gained a sixth sense.  They could, from an early age, detect Margaret’s moods and her whereabouts in the house. Like scared, white mice they had watched each other from across the hall, listening to her shrill voice rise up the steps. If she were coming home early one warned the other, and if some sort of disaster had happened, they worked together in both cleaning it up and taking the blame. Together they had stood against her many upsets, the echoing commands to clean and to study and occasionally, for God’s sake, to just get out of the house.

It was a funny sort of déjà vu, to be dancing the same dance with him thirty years later. Brian knew even before she failed to embrace him that she was on the edge.

 

Like everything else about Birmingham, the living room was exactly the same, except everything had faded to various shaded of muddy gray. Margaret sat in a large, worn armchair completely identical to the empty one next to it. Her brood and Jill, respectively, sat on the couch, rigid and uncomfortable. The television was set to the News channel, and provided a white glow and a low hum to the relative silence. The whole house smelled like a mixture of must and lemon cleaner.

“Can I offer anyone anything?” Asked his mother, again.

“No, no.” Said Jill, answering with a gummy smile for both she and her husband.

“Thomas? You are awfully thin.”

Brian shifted, glancing up at her.

“No, mother. Thank you.”

An expression of disappointment settled on her face, and she folded her hands.

“The funeral is at three o’ clock tomorrow afternoon.”

“Ah.”

“I would have told you sooner had you told me what time you were leaving- I believe I rung you all night, like an imbecile. I hope that’s not inconvenient.”

“I set aside all of tomorrow for the funeral, it isn’t inconvenient in the slightest.”

“How good of you to do that for us, Thomas.”

Silence, and the low murmur of the newscast. Brian’s eyes flickered to the staircase behind her, which wound up to he and John’s old rooms.

“How has Gabrielle been? Not too much of a hassle I hope.” Jill asked, slightly hysterical.

“Not at all,” Margaret’s eyes were set on Brian, “Just a little sunbeam. Tell me Thomas, what have you been up to these past months? I have only received a few letters.”

“Directing,” He grunted, matching the indifference of her tone, “Plays, and whatnot.”

“You did so like the theatre, over in Kensington if I remember it correctly. I always told Bernard that we shouldn’t have sent you to stay there. Maybe if he’d listened to me my son would have time to call his grieving mother, instead of being so consumed in his work.”

“I’d better check on the baby,” Said Jill, rising and streaking up the steps. So they’d confined another child to the dimness and dankness of those rooms, he thought.

“Well, I would have found the theatre anyway. I’m very passionate about it.”

He eyed John, who’s expression changed, becoming dull and emotionless though now he could have picked her up and thrown her against the bookcase.

“Too passionate. I’ll always think that’s what happened with you. We shouldn’t have sent you to stay with Anne, we shouldn’t have let you around that  _ husband  _ of hers, or any of those people. It spoiled you. Everything I’ve done has spoiled you.”

“Mother, have you had anything to drink?”

“John, please, I am old and tired and nobody will tell you these things but your own mother. I admit that I’ve had a drink, and I admit that I was wrong, Thomas, but do you have to continue to punish me?”

“What on Earth,” He asked quietly, “Do you mean?”

“Your father is dead,” Her voice was trembling with grief and righteousness,

“I am old. This house is empty. I have nothing to show for my life other than you boys. John has done very, very well for himself. But I worry about you, and I feel that at your age you should know better _. _ I feel like you keep up all of this nonsense with Paris and the theatre- and- just to hurt me, because I know there is a strong, upright, defiant man in there Thomas. I know there is.”

 

“You mean I am bisexual and unmarried just to shame you?”

At the word she flinched, and rage colored her pallid face. She bit her lip, eyes blazing, and a crooked smile swept across his face.

“I wish you would stop insisting that.”

Brian was quiet, his face smooth and dull.

“Not only me,” She continued, grave, “But your father. It’s too late for him to ever see the man he wanted you to become- but you can still do it. You just have to apply yourself.”

“I am no longer in primary school.”

“You never learned to work, that’s your problem.”

“I think it’s time we put you to bed, mother,” Said John, soothingly, but her gaze still clung to Brian and she slapped his hands away with enough force to make him jump.

“Your baby is crying, John, please attend to her.”

He turned back to Brian and in the hazy television light, the face of their father faded, and he was himself as he remembered him: Sullen, quiet, and despite everything, unwilling to leave Brian alone with her.

He nodded, and John drifted away, silently marching up the steps towards the half-soothed fussing.

 

“I didn’t come home to be lectured, mother,” Brian said, the moment he was gone,

“I didn’t come here for this. My father is dead. I came to pay my respects.”

She stared at him, silently, her face screwed up in an almost comical way, like a cartoon character that’s eaten a lemon.

“You’ve wasted the life he tried to give you. You’ve wasted the life I’ve tried to give you. You’ve wasted it all- You are completely ungrateful.”

He regarded her framed against the dull wall behind her, an old woman, a lonely woman, with nothing but grown sons and a newscast to entertain her. He could not feel.

“I believe it might be best if you didn’t come tomorrow.”

He could not feel. He could not feel. Somewhere, there was safety, somewhere, there was a place to let it all go.

“You won’t let me attend my own father’s funeral?”

“I don’t think he would’ve wanted you there. I shouldn’t have called. You will be delighted to return home, I’m sure.”

Brian got to his feet, faster than he would have thought possible, so fast his head whirled. Black spots clouded in his eyes, a terrible ringing made his head throb. John’s silhouette was at the top of the stairs, or maybe it was Jill, or maybe it was his father, come to watch him leave. Margaret still stared at him, rage and pain heavy on her face.

“I am so tired of fighting you, Thomas. You have never let me be your friend.”

The weepy tone of her voice enraged him as he snatched his coat from the hook by the door, and plundered into the fog.

It was only when he passed the shop that he began to cry.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He couldn’t cut through Curt’s babbling, couldn’t get him to listen.

_ It was worse than I ever thought,  _ he wants to scream,  _ It was worse than I ever thought. _

But Curt is louder than him, and stronger than him, and Brian is so close to crumpling that he just can’t do it. He has no strength, no patience: There’s no use in yelling but there’s no energy for anything else. It’s just like the last time, only worse, because now he’s  _ positive  _ that Curt is in danger. There is no blind hope that maybe he’s just gone to a hotel. There is no fantasy that he will return in the morning, scruffy and hung over but beautifully alive. There is no Jack Fairy to come help him now. There’s nothing. He’s sealed away, across the ocean, in a torture chamber of drugs and panic and glass. He tries to call him back, endlessly, before the strain of the unbroken ringing becomes so much that he’s sick all over the floor. Endlessly, violently sick, a mixture of cheap liquor and bile.

 

The waves are hitting him now, making sleep impossible, though he’d gotten hastily drunk and thrown himself in bed ages ago. When his eyes are open he sees shadows hanging in front of him, bleary black blots caught in the half-light coming from the window. The walls move, forever forward or forever back, but always closing in, trapping him inside. Each time he drifts off he snaps awake, heart hammering, the ringing in his ears so fierce it sounds like shattering glass. He can’t breathe. Pacing causes spasms of pain in his exhausted legs but he can’t do anything else, can’t afford to sit down, can’t afford to stop moving, can’t afford to change the pattern of his wild dizzy footsteps until he at last collapses.

 

Sleep comes dark and heavy, crushing him into his bed. Distorted, useless dreams drift by him. John is trapped in the house and Margaret won’t let him out. His father keeps throwing his things into the street, and every time he tries to scream at him to stop he has no air. Mandy and Margaret are having tea and letting him slowly burn to death in the garden beneath the sun. Somewhere, Curt is in trouble.

Curt won’t talk to him, keeps turning away. Curt is on the phone, and keeps getting annoyed when Brian tells him he can’t breathe.

 

When the idea occurs to him it’s still dark, and he’s still drunk. The clock reads 4 AM. He’s kicked everything off the bed, and he’s bathed in sweat, but the ringing has stopped. The spinning walls and inky blots are still there, but his head is calmer, despite his body aching and screaming for rest.

Once, when he was young and stupid and even drunker than he is now, he’d almost thrown himself off a nearby bridge a few miles from home. He had just flunked out of university, and was being evicted from his flat. None of his friends had space or time to take him in, and the idea of telling Margaret and Bernard what had happened had so ashamed him that he’d gone to the bridge with the full intent of jumping.  

All he’d done was break down and go to Charlie’s, but this was no fit of childish embarrassment.

Brian pulls himself up, every inch of his body screaming with stress and starvation and exhaustion, and sees himself in the mirror. A cheerful voice cries,

_ “Never have I seen her so pale! She is like the shadow of a white rose in a mirror of silver.” _

                                                     # # # # 

_ The sun is setting, rosy pink, over the dismal sepia brick of Birmingham. Their faces are reflected in the water: Her eyes are dull, brown. His are a faded, weepy blue. One of his yellow Mary-Janes has fallen from his foot, and is now floating, languidly, downstream. _

_ “I wouldn’t be a bother- honest. I’ll live in the attic. I’ll do whatever-“ _

_ “Thomas,” She says, shaking her head, _

_ “Really, me mum and dad are sorry for what they’re doin’ to ya, but we don’t have any room. Have ya called-?” _

_ “I’ve talked to everyone I know.” _

_ Hot tears drip from the end of his nose. _

_ “And ya really can’t-?” _

_ “I absolutely cannot go home.” _

_ Dust and sweat stain his suit, the nicest one he owns. His lank hair has grown out from the typical mod style now, and hangs to his shoulders. He looks like a frazzled, snotty child. _

_ “Well- I think it’s time I got back to mine.” _

_ She stands, skirt hiking up slightly, and throws one long leg over the seat of her bike. _

_ “I’ll see you around. I really do hope you figure things out.” _

_ He watches her go, a white streak fading slowly into the hustle and bustle of town. Just another person who doesn’t care about him, who doesn’t understand what he’s up against, who sees nothing in him at all. He’d thought, as his girlfriend, she would have been a definite answer to this predicament. It’s getting quite cold. He’ll have to return to Margaret and Bernard’s ant trap before nightfall. _

_ He looks down at the water, dirty and high from a recent rain. The pink stain of sunset is settled across it, making it hypnotic. He could just slip forward- and forward- and forward. He can’t swim. A bit of a struggle, and then- _

 

Brian’s head hangs over the deluge of rushing black water that runs underneath the bridge. The lamps here have fresh, white-fluorescent bulbs that glance right off the surface, turning it to oil. The stench of churned silt and garbage float up to him, sickening his shrunken stomach. There is nothing but the distant rumble of cars, and the crashing, reckless water. He hoists himself up, trembling from cold, and hangs one leg over the rail.

  
  



	20. Under Your Skin

The shower in the morning burns, bad. Probably the worst it ever has. Still, Curt winces his way through it, because he can’t take a leap like this smelling like rotten booze.

His head pounds, and his whole body protests the process of getting up. His bank account is going to suffer, with buying a hasty plane ticket, literally hours before the flight.

Being a music legend does indeed have its perks in times such as these.

A manic high is thrumming through his body- or, actually, it’s probably still the vyvanse. Either way, he holds fast the burst of courage and motivation it’s provided him with and let’s it carry him through cloudy decision after cloudy decision.  

 

He packs nothing more than a carry on, smokes a bowl, and his own sanity, he slides three joints into his cigarette case.

He’s on his way to the airport in less than thirty minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

Curt is baked as a cake by the time they take off.

He’s as comfortable and relaxed as possible, for the situation. Self consciously, he keeps yanking the sleeve of his black thermal down.

Eventually he rips himself a thumbhole.

Still, he can’t hide the disgusting bloody scabs of his left hand, his fingers bitten raw and his knuckles picked at one time too many. And he can’t hide the dark violet half moons swept under his eyes, that seem to only get darker and deeper with time. Curt tugs at his hair, and examines a sandy brown strand that ends in blonde.

He curses himself for always looking like such an unhinged disaster.

Will Brian want to come back with him? Will he even want to talk?

Curt doesn’t have all the details. He has the address of his hotel, and his room number, and the address of the Stoningham residence.

He’s taking a big chance here, he figures once he lands he’ll take a taxi to both and hope Brian is at one of those places, or at the very least, someone who knows where he might be, is.

The only option, now, is to smoke himself to sleep.

He drifts off, and over those long hours, each time he wakes up, he smokes another joint.

A flawless system, of course, until he lands, and he’s the most disoriented, jetlagged and confused he’s ever been in his life, in a city he barely knows, taking a giant risk.

Curt Wild wins the award for most emotionally rash. 

 

* * *

 

 

The motto for today, is to do what scares him the most first.

So he heads for Brian’s parent’s house.

It’s early, and it feels so inappropriate and uncomfortable as he pulls into the narrow paved driveway, and yet, he’s not afraid. There’s really nothing to be afraid of anymore.

He pays the cab fee and thanks the tired driver, who gives him a weary smile, hands him his duffel and goes on his way.

Curt reminds himself of the stories Brian told, of the tears, of the waking up in the middle of the night clutching his shirt and mumbling about things that had happened, and with this anger, he finds the will to knock firmly on the front door.

Immediately as she opens the door, he knows who she is.

“Margaret.”

Cold dull blue eyes glare up at him, both disgusted and apprehensive.

“Can I help you, sir?” She says, tone blank, looking him up and down.

There are so many things he wants to say to her. He clenches his teeth and digs his nails into his palm.

“Is Brian here?” It comes out like gravel scraping his throat.

She puts the pieces together quickly, his disarry, his accent, the name.

“Hm,” Margaret looks just as amused as she is angry. “No, Thomas isn’t at home. I really couldn’t say where he’s wandered off to now.”

“He’s not staying with you?”

“No.”

“Okay, thanks for nothing I guess lady.”

He turns to go, but the trembling anger he can feel in his fingers stops him.

“Y’know what? You’re a really shitty fucking parent.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have no regard for him or his safety or his feelings and you never have. And he’s still suffering for it. You fucked up his life. You keep fucking up his life. You’re a terrible human being and you should just leave him alone and let him recover from all the ways you’ve screwed him over for the last thirty seven years. I hope you die alone. If I have anything to say about it, you will.”

She starts yelling something forgettable about he can’t show up unannounced and tell her how to parent her adult son.  

“Oh, and I’m sorry for your loss, though, from what I understand, it really wasn’t much of a loss.”

Curt lights a cigarette, turns on his heel, and decides it’s time he find Brian.

 

* * *

 

 

Brian isn’t in his room, or if he is, he wont answer the phone or the door.

Curt immediately starts crying the third time he won’t pick up, and has to duck into an empty hallway and yank at his hair and take deep stuttering breaths until he can stop.

What if this was all a mistake after all?

What if Brian’s mom called and told him what had happened?

He wouldn’t think he’d care that he yelled at Margaret, but if he didn’t want to see him?

The fight they had wasn’t new. It had so much history. Maybe he really ruined everything.

Eaten by his thoughts, he starts off in the opposite direction of the hotel, not sure where he’s going.

He just walks. The city around him is behind a smoke screen. His feet feel heavy.

Curt just doesn’t want to be alone anymore. He’s so afraid and so tired. He just doesn’t want to do it by himself. That’s all.

He doesn’t need anybody to fix what’s in his head for him. He just wants somebody to be there with him while he figures it out.

Curt can’t do it alone anymore. He’s too old, too old with not the stability and maturity of someone his age. There’s so much missing. He knows there is.

He knows that doesn’t make him the easiest or most lovable person to be around.

 

Curt nearly misses him.

As he’s crossing a bridge over the river, in the corner of his eye, a tiny movement turns him.

There’s a man leaning off the side of the bridge, on the far side of the railing like he’s about to jump.

Panic and adrenaline seize him, and carry him across the street.

It’s not until he grabs him and pulls him away from the ledge that he comprehends that it’s Brian.

Then he’s on the ground, trapping him down in his arms. He’s thrashing and hyperventilating and screaming at Curt to let him go. He’s stronger than him. He won’t. That’s not happening ever again.

All he can do is hold him there until he stops struggling.

“Baby, please, stay. Please stay. Please stay.”

Brian’s just crying and shaking. Curt can tell he’s not really there. And none of this feels like it’s happening. None of it.

Every noise sounds slowed down, the cars that drive by them, their heap on the sidewalk, and the wind and the water and the weeping and the stuttering. The silence is layered.

“I love you, I love you. Don’t go away from me, I love you. Don’t leave me, please.”

Over and over and longer it goes the smaller Brian seems. The farther away. Curt holds tighter and it doesn’t seem to matter, he seems to be slipping further.

“Baby. Please. Please don’t leave.”

He rocks him in his arms and cries into his shoulder and pleads his whispers for as long as it takes to steal him back from where he went.

The impossible coincidence of his timing is choking him. The thought of what he would've found had he been a second later has him nauseous and shaking and clinging tighter.

He could’ve lost him.

“Curt?”

“Ssh, ssh, it’s okay. I’m here.”

“Curt are you real?”

“I am, promise. I am.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Just stay, it’s all okay. Just stay. Just don’t leave.”

“You’re really here?”

“Yes, baby, I’m really here.” He squeezes Brian’s hand. “See?”

“Curt.” He’s shaking so hard and clutching him desperately. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.”

“Please can we go home. Please. Please get me out of here.”

“I’ve got you, we’ll go. I’ve got you.”

Brian is squeezing him too tight, it hurts, and he thinks he might be bleeding. Shaking himself, he stands up slowly, and gathers him up in his arms.

  
  



	21. Only Not To Be Of Use

The few blocks back to the hotel are quiet and foggy. Curt feels like he’s moving in slow motion, and among the noise of the city all he can hear is Brian’s shuddering breath after breath. 

He doesn’t come back into his body until Curt’s gently setting him down on the hotel bed and sitting down next to him. 

“I don’t know how I got there- it was all so sudden.” 

“Hey, it’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” 

“Curt she- I’m not welcome at my father’s funeral.” 

“Fucking bitch.” 

“He and I, we never settled things.” 

“I know baby.” 

“We never can now. It’s too late.” 

Curt takes his hand in his lap and gives it a squeeze. He meets his eyes. His look is full of concern and heartbreak and it’s so loving that Brian feels like his heart is coming up his throat. 

“That isn’t your fault. It wasn’t your job to fix things, Brian. It was on him. All you need to work on is healing. I know it must feel awful but really you have absolutely no reason to feel guilty.” 

Tears burn at his throat. He crawls across the bed and closes the shred of space between them, leaning his head against his chest. 

“I’m just tired, Curt. I’m really tired.” 

“I’ve got you. You don’t have to do it alone. I know I can’t do much, but I can promise you that.” 

“You’re not mad at me?” 

“I was never mad. Just sad and scared without you. I was worried you didn’t want me anymore.” 

“Never, puppy.” Brian pulls back and looks up at him. “I didn’t want to leave, I really didn’t.” 

“I should've come with. Never should’ve let you face her alone.” 

“It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s past now.” 

Curt sighs, low and tired, and pulls Brian flush against his side with a firm arm around him. 

“You know when the funeral is sweetheart?” 

“Right now. I can’t imagine it’ll last more than two hours. Those people don’t know how to have feelings, much less honor the dead.” 

“How about this- let’s you and me go to the cemetery and you can pay your respects. Who needs the harpy woman and her band of followers?” 

Brian looks at him with glassy eyes. 

“You’d do that?” 

“Absolutely.”

 

* * *

 

 

They call a car and drive to a small nearby florist and Brian picks out a rose. The way to the cemetery is quiet. He’s distant, but he holds Curt’s hand, clutching the flower in his lap. 

Behind the gates St. James is lush and green, full of trees and neatly cut grass. 

The driver drops them at the front gate. It’s a small graveyard, luckily, so Brian doesn’t have to stress about how to find his father. 

They’re standing in front of the headstone. Brian leans over and places the rose gingerly on the soft ground. 

It’s what he can do. 

Curt wraps his arms around him and leads him gently back on the path and through the gates. 

Brian knows he’s never coming back to his dreadly dim haunted city. Or at the very least, never alone.

 

* * *

 

“So, uh, do you think you should go back to Paris?” 

They’re back at the hotel, MTV is a quiet murmur through the room. Brian’s leaning his head on Curt’s shoulder. He turns to look at him. 

“I don’t quite know. I’ve been trying not to think about it.” 

Curt shifts and turns to him. 

“I really wanna make this work, but I don’t want you to give up your art.” 

“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking maybe I should do music again.” He combs a hand through his sandy hair. “But I have to make sure this play is finished, either way.” 

“I mean,” Curt looks down at his lap. “I understand if you have to go.” 

Brian moves closer, and presses his forehead against Curt’s. He cradles his face in his hands. 

“I’m not going to leave you. I wish I could make you understand that.” 

He lets out a deep breath. 

“I love you, Brian.” 

“And I love you sweet boy. I want you to come with me, if you would.” 

“Yeah?” 

Brian smiles shyly. 

“Yes. I’d love your company. And to show you off a bit, for my selfish enjoyment.” 

Curt laughs, softly, and pulls Brian into his lap. 

“We’ll book the flight in the morning then. You need rest.” 

“Yes mummy.” 

“Shut it.”'

 

* * *

 

In the middle of the night Curt wakes them both up screaming. Brian has to turn on the light and gather him in his arms and rock him. 

It’s comforting, to be able to hold him. His pain tugs at his heart, but it’s a distraction from his own. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Curt is breathing hard and shaking and pressing his face into Brian’s neck. 

“My darling, my angel. You’re safe. You’re alright. It was just a dream. I’m here.” 

“Really bad.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Ssh.” 

“But I woke you.” His voice is raspy and strained. 

“You’ve had a stressful few days as well. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re here with me.” 

“So glad you’re here.” 

“Me too sweet boy. Can I help you?” 

“You love me?” 

“I love you so much. More than you can know.” 

“I just need to be close to you.” 

Brian sits up, a sleepy smile across his mouth. 

“I have an idea. How about a warm bath?” 

Curt shivers, and looks up at him with glassy dim eyes. He’s curled in on himself.

“With you?” 

“Yes. I have lavender oil we can use. And that strawberry shampoo you like.” 

Brian reaches over and tucks a lock of hair behind Curt’s ear. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

“Okay, yeah, that sounds nice.”

 

* * *

 

The bathroom is warm and steamy. Brian is calm and cautious with him. 

He gently tugs at Curt’s thermal. 

“Can I take this off?” 

He swallows, looking down, he nods. Brian feels him shaking, and pauses. 

“Baby, are you alright?” 

“I-I don’t know.” 

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not feeling okay about it.” 

“No, it’s okay, I just- I had a really bad time when we fought.” 

It takes Brian a moment to grasp what he means. 

“It’s alright, Curt, can you look at me?” 

He shivers, and slowly looks up. 

“I can help. The bath will be good, even it hurts a little. Will you let me help?” 

Curt nods, and raises his arms, letting Brian undress him carefully. 

He can’t help gasping though, at the deep red gashes running up and down Curt’s arms. 

“My poor boy. Really were hurting. Wish I could’ve been there to help.” 

He runs his fingers gingerly over the cuts. Not vertical, mercifully Curt found the restraint not to do that to him. 

He feels a low pang of guilt for almost jumping, almost letting go, when his sweet boy hadn’t. 

Brian helps him into the bath. He washes his hair with sweet smelling soap and gently runs the water over his arms. Curt leans into him. He lets himself be cared for, and how someone who was hurt so badly can find a way to trust him amazes him yet again. 

And after he dries him, soft and warm, he tucks him in and lulls them both back to sleep. 

  
  



	22. Is This Desire?

Curt feels like he spends his whole life on a plane, but this flight is calm, serene. He falls asleep on Brian’s shoulder. 

Their time in the air is not nearly as long as the flight from Washington state. By the time he opens his eyes, they’re landing. 

“Good morning, sleepy puppy.” 

Curt huffs and stretches, and kisses Brian softly on the mouth. 

“We’re on the ground?” 

“Yes dear, safely in Paris. Now we can head to my flat, get some food in you, and rest.” 

Curt hums, and pushes his head into Brian’s arm while they wait to be allowed off the plane.

 

* * *

“You have a cat?! Hello beautiful.” Curt is immediately reaching down and scratching behind Fiona’s ears. “How did I not meet her before?” 

“She was probably hiding, my darling. We were being awfully loud. Hello little Fiona.” The tiny green eyed cat brushes against his leg and mews. 

“Has she been okay while you were gone?” Curt says, voice impossibly gentle and warm, honestly concerned. 

“Yes of course, one of my girls, Annette, was feeding her and checking on her for me. I’ve missed her terribly though.” He picks her up in his arms and steps gracefully into the kitchen. “I’ll put on some tea.” 

Curt smiles, his heart fluttering in his chest. He follows him. 

Brian puts the kettle on the stove, Fiona on the counter, observing. He crosses the kitchen into the living room and disappears for a moment. 

“Would you mind some music?” He calls, his voice warm, happy.

“Nah, where should I put my bag?” 

“On the table is fine, puppy.” Nancy Sinatra begins to flow in sweetly, her voice smoothly moving through the flat. 

Curt sits at the table, feeling shy and a bit small. It feels overwhelming to be in Brian’s space. It smells faintly of roses, clove cigarettes and lavender incense, like him. 

It’s beautifully decorated, a white lace table cloth, transparent violet curtains that filter the sun, a framed Starry Night on the pale blue wall. 

He hadn’t really had the time to take it all in his last visit, with the shouting, and then the sex. 

He has to physically shake his head to dismiss the thought, already feeling flustered enough. 

Curt shifts in his seat as Brian makes his way back into view. He smiles wryly at him. 

“Why do you look so shy?” 

“Uh, no reason. It’s just a nice place.” 

“Well thank you, darling.” He moves to the stove just as the kettle starts to whistle, takes it off the burner and pulls two tea cups from the light wash wood cabinet. 

The gentle light of the room is illuminating him, throwing highlights into his hair and a sparkle in his eye. Curt can’t help staring. 

“Is raspberry with honey alright? I really must go to the store soon.” 

“Yeah, that’s cool.” 

He brings the cups over to the table and sits across from him, folding his hands gracefully as the tea steams in front of him. 

“I’m glad you’re here, puppy.” 

“Me too,” Curt says, and means it. “Really glad.”

 

* * *

 

The sunlight wakes Curt up in the morning, and he flops over and wraps his arms around Brian. 

“Puppy.” He says, voice lower than normal, fresh from sleep. “Warm.” 

Their bodies pressed flush together feels safe and so comfortable. Curt pushes his face into Brian’s soft clean hair. 

“We have to go the rehearsal in an hour.” Brian whines, and turns over and looks at him. 

“You, um, wanna take me with?” 

“Well, naturally. They’re all dying to know what’s been distracting me.”

 

* * *

 

Brian is pressed against his side on the way to the theatre. He plays with his fingers and hums quietly. 

Curt feels overwhelmed by all the touching, and pulled into it just the same, leaning against him. He smells good, and he's soft to the touch. 

His fingers feel like silk. 

They pull up to the door, and Curt helps him out of the car gingerly. Brian is immediately on his arm, grinning. 

Curt blushes as they walk into the auditorium. Everyone is staring. 

“Everyone, I have returned, and I'm sure you know Curt.” 

There is a suspicious silence. Cast members look from the pair of them to each other with disbelief. 

One of the girls, the lead if Curt remembers correctly, says something that ends in “Monsieur Stoningham” and Brian smiles almost shyly. 

He speaks with them all for a moment, and Curt doesn’t understand a single word. 

Then he turns back to him. 

“I have business to attend to, only for a while. I leave you in Anette and Yasmina’s capable hands, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to discuss. They were at your Paris show.” He kisses Curt’s cheek softly. “See you in a bit, darling.” 

And then, in a blur of a scarf and white dress shirt he’s disappeared from the auditorium, off to do some important directing and managing. 

Yasmina and Annette are staring at him, awe and excitement in their eyes. Curt has to take a deep breath, feeling shy and unsure of what to say in the face of great admiration already. 

“You’re really Curt Wild aren’t you?” The younger looking one, blue eyes, brunette, says breathlessly. 

“Uh, yeah. What’s your name?” 

“Yasmina, she’s Annette.” She says, grinning at her counterpart.

Annette is a little taller, dressed a bit more seriously, colored darker. She seems to be a bit more controlled and mature than Yasmina, but she’s radiating excitement all the same. They’re both beautiful women, the kind Curt wouldn’t hesitate to hook up with in a seedy motel back in his early twenties. 

“Let’s sit?” 

Curt clears his throat and nods, following them a few rows into the house to sit. 

He waits, and gestures for them to slide into their seats before him. Yasmina giggles like a schoolgirl. 

“Your album is fantastic, one of my favorites in the history of music. The concert was mesmerizing, truly, I really felt like I could feel what you were feeling, y’know?” She’s talking excitedly and her eyes are gleaming adoration. Curt feels himself blush. 

“You really feel that way?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“I have to wonder, who is the inspiration for all those love songs?” Annette speaks up, her accent is thick and smooth. Her english a bit broken. “Is it really connected to, what I believe it’s connected to?” 

She moves her head in the direction of the stage door, gesturing to exactly who she means. 

“Annette! It’s not polite to ask musicians things like that! Besides, I don’t think we’re really supposed to be talking about Mister Stoningham’s music career.” 

Curt is staring down at his hands, his body thrumming with pride and butterflies fluttering in his stomach. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s largely about Brian. I’m pretty surprised at how people are able to make that connection. I feel like they’d have to be paying really close attention.” He’s smiling widely at them. 

Yasmina shifts closer to him, her thigh pressed against his. She threads her arm around his.

“So you both really are the real Maxwell Demon and Curt Wild.” 

He shifts, clears his throat again. Her chest is pressed firmly against his bicep. 

“Well-” 

“Excuse me,” It’s Brian. He’s standing in front of them, arms crossed. He looks impatient _.  _ “I’m dreadfully sorry to interrupt, but Mister Wild and I really must be going now.” 

“Oh, but we just-” 

In one smooth motion he grabs Curt’s arm and pulls his up and out of Yasmina’s grasp. In seconds, they’re out of the theatre.

 

* * *

 

“Brian. You’re hurting my arm. Slow down.” 

He doesn’t. He swings the door to the flat open and slams it shut behind them. 

He backs Curt up against the door. The firm weight of Brian pressed against him is intoxicatingly familiar. 

Their faces are inches apart. There’s a dangerous gleam in Brian’s eyes. Curt realises then that he’s  _ angry.  _

“You can’t honestly think I believe your clueless flirt act. And you can’t honestly think you can get away with it. They were rubbing themselves all over you.” He’s got him pinned by his neck, his heart is hammering in his chest, and his jeans are growing tight. 

“Brian, I wasn’t flirting I-” 

“I don’t wanna hear any flippant excuses, Curt Anthony.” 

He whimpers, his knees feel weak. 

“You need to be put in your place, boy?” 

“Fuck, christ.” 

“You’re getting hard.” He reaches down, and squeezes him through his jeans. Curt gasps, and bucks his hips. “Think you need to be reminded who you belong to.” 

Brian hasn’t done this with him in over a decade. Hadn’t been pissed off enough to be rough with him. It’s already making him lose it, and go all stupid and blank. 

He pulls down the zipper to his jeans, ever so slowly, and undoes the button. He’s not wearing underwear. His cock springs free, the cool air hitting it makes him shiver. 

“Look at that, already stiff and swollen.” Brian grabs it, and slowly moves his hand up and down. “My puppy has such a fat cock.” 

He’s still stroking him as he kisses his neck, drags his teeth down it, and then bites down and sucks him. Curt keens and reaches up to fist a hand in Brian’s hair. 

He reaches down and yanks his jeans down to his knees and then grabs him by his hips and flips him over. Curt is panting now. 

“Look at that sweet little ass, puppy. Just begging to be used. If only you could see what a pathetic mess you’re turning into.” 

 

Brian squeezes it, and then smacks him so, so hard. Curt whimpers. 

“That’s right,” He leans in his close, breathing against his ear. “Submit to me.” 

“Brian.” He can’t get out more than a word, he’s too hot now, feeling himself drift away. 

“You’re mine.” 

Everytime he hits him he slips deeper into the warmth, and out of his head. 

“Oh my poor boy is all dumb now, can’t take being punished can he?” 

His mouth is hanging open and he’s shaking against the door. 

“Brian, brian I can’t. Too much.” 

“I know, does it sting hard enough yet?

“Yes, fuck.” 

“Mm, baby I’m not sure I believe you.” 

“Brian if you keep spanking me I’ll come.” The heat is already building up in his stomach and his cock is twitching. 

“Christ.” 

Brian grabs him and flips him back over. Curt can’t meet his eyes. 

“You’re a mess.” 

“Don’t.” 

“And you’re beautiful.” 

“Please.” 

“What do you want, little boy?” 

“Fuck me.” 

“Look me in the eyes and ask me nicely.” 

Slowly and shakily, he looks up, panting. 

“Please fuck me.” 

“You’re a whore, aren’t you Curt?” Brian yanks his hair. “Who do you belong to?” 

“You, belong to you.” 

“You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes, fuck, please I need it.” 

“Poor desperate puppy.” 

Brian backs up, and looks him up and down, a quiet hum escaping him. He takes him by the arm and pulls him close, flush against his chest. 

How they are now, Brian is just slightly taller, and Curt feels smaller than he ever has. 

“I want you in my bed. Like you had me.” 

Curt shuts his eyes and nods his head. 

“You want that, little puppy? Use your words, come now.” 

He takes a shaky breath and forces it out. 

“Yes Brian I want you to fuck me on your bed.” 

“There’s my good boy.” Brian says, voice gentle and condescending. Then he yanks his jeans down to his ankles and carefully helps him step out of them. 

He presses their mouths together, and tangles his fingers into Curt’s thick wild hair. Slowly he backs them up, into the hallway. He licks his mouth and sucks his tongue and indulges in the feeling of his moans vibrating through. 

As the backs of Curt’s knees hit the edge of the bed Brian shoves him down hard onto his back. 

He crawls over him, and undoes his zipper. He’s got his cock in his hand, and Curt is staring and squirming. 

“Brian.” 

He strokes it and stares down at him, a dangerously hard look on his face. 

“You made me angry, Curt. Flirting with those silly girls. I intend to make your place here clear.” 

“Oh my god, oh my god.” 

“Understand?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“Good.” Brian reaches across the bed to the nightstand and pulls a small jar out of the drawer. Curt immediately whimpers, and his hand moves downwards to his own cock. 

“I see your hand. I don’t think so. Turn over, now.” 

He gasps and as quickly as he can, turns over onto his knees, ass facing Brian. 

And suddenly his fingers, warm and slick, are pressed against his hole. 

“Oh god oh fuck Brian.” 

“Don’t move.” 

He doesn’t. He pants and closes his eyes as Brian pushes inside him. 

“Christ Curt you’re tight.” He swallows as his cock twitches. “You’ve been a bad dog, you know, not sure I mind if I hurt you. Can’t say I’m feeling very patient.” 

He moves his fingers in and out, picking up speed quicker than comfortable. Curt’s arms give out and his ass is in the air and he can’t stop whimpering. 

Once more, his hand moves down towards his cock. Brian swears and quickly manhandles his arms behind his back. 

“I said no,” He smacks his ass, twice. “You’re having trouble listening.” 

He smacks him eight more times, total, each bruisingly harder than the last. Curt jumps and trembles and tears start falling from his eyes. 

He’s pathetic for Brian and he loves it and he can’t control the sounds coming out of his mouth. 

Brian takes out his fingers, then his hard, leaking cock and presses hard against his hole. He reaches down and pulls Curt’s hair. Then he pushes in. 

Curt sobs and grips the sheets. He cries as Brian buries himself in him. He’s begging uncontrollably. 

“God, puppy, fuck.” He starts moving, slamming in hard without giving it any time. “So tight. Missed this pretty ass. Love fucking you.” 

Curt sobs and rocks back onto him, and then Brian reaches down and jerks his cock, and he actually screams. 

Brian moves his hand in rhythm with his thrusts and Curt is crying into the mattress. 

He squeezes his ass. 

“Brian, brian, brian.” 

He spanks him again and pushes in as far as he can. 

“Oh my god I’m gonna come I can’t-” 

“Submit. Come for me.” 

Immediately he spills over Brian’s hand, onto the sheets. He clenches on his cock so hard that it milks out his orgasm and has him spilling inside of Curt. 

He’s so full of come, and he can’t stop crying and shaking. 

Brian pulls out and his spunk leaks out slowly. He’s lying down next to Curt’s crumbled heap and wrapping around his body firmly. 

“Good boy, good puppy. So good.”

He whimpers and trembles. 

“Ssh, angel. Come back to me. I’m right here.” 

He’s still crying and can’t stop, pressing his face into Brian’s shirt.  

“Oh, sweet boy. Come now. No more tears.”

He can’t, he’s so out of his mind. He let’s Brian wrap his arms tight around him. 

“Curt? Are you there?” 

He huffs, and grips his shirt like a child. 

“My puppy. Take your time.” He smooths his hair and kisses his forehead. 

“Brian.” 

“I’ve got you my darling.” 

He presses closer, and tucks his head under Brian’s chin. 

“Spacey.”

“Can tell, you’re alright.” 

“‘Kay” 

“Can I ask you some questions, Curt?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Was that okay?” 

“Very.” 

“You cried.” 

“Just lost it.” 

Brian clears his throat. 

“When was, um, the last time you let somebody be in control?”

Curt is quiet for a long moment. 

“You.” 

“Oh. I see.” 

He curses himself silently for the anger, though it made it intense, if he’d known...

“Could I ask why?” 

“Trust.” 

“Oh.” His chest feels tight. 

“Mmhm.” 

“Wow.” 

“You’re special, baby.” 

“Special? Really?” 

“Special.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you know I wasn’t really flirting with those girls?” 

“Yes, my jealousy got the best of me. It’s no big deal. I’m not angry.”

“I, um,” Curt moves to look up at him. “I love you.” 

Brian smiles softly at him, and leans down to kiss his lips. 

“I love you too.” 

Curt smiles back. He feels floaty and brainless. He feels owned. 

He pushes his head up under Brian’s chin. He combs his fingers through his wily long blonde and brown hair. 

They stay that way for a long while.

  
  



	23. Carry Me

Curt doesn’t know any French dealers. And two days sober he’s pacing around Brian’s flat like a caged wolf. He needs a hit of something. 

Jack has to know somebody, anybody, who just has something. Even just a single joint would make a world of difference right now. 

He’s about to call, he’s got the receiver in his hand, and then Brian comes home from work. 

He’s a whirlwind through the front door, his scarf and coat hanging off him, which he needs in the autumn chill. He’d always been so cold, all the time. 

Brian sighs, and lets his messenger bad slump off his shoulder onto the ground. 

Curt feels like a deer in the headlights. 

“Hello sweet boy, what are you up to?” 

“Uh,” He puts the phone back down on the hook. “Nothing. How was work?” 

Brian takes off his jacket and folds it over one of the kitchen chairs, before crossing over into Curt’s space and kissing him on the mouth. 

“It was boring today. I missed you.” 

Curt hums and wraps an arm around Brian’s waist. 

“I missed you too, babydoll.” 

He grins, and kisses him again. Then he backs up and stretches, yawning. 

“What should we get to eat? Are you feeling like going out?” 

There’s a terrible itch under Curt’s skin. He has no idea how much longer he can take this. 

“Let’s get indian.” 

“We’re in france you heathen!” 

“Go eat a snail, twink.” 

They order indian take out to the flat. Brian gets a mango lassi and picks off Curt’s plate.

 

* * *

 

It’s the middle of the night, and Brian hears the whole conversation. 

“I know, I know,” A sharp sigh. “Well? I’m losing my mind. Yeah I know you shouldn’t condone it but do you want me to like...I dunno? Die?” 

A pause and then, 

“Christ, thank you. No, I mean it. Okay, it’s like four in the morning here. I should go. Yeah. Alright. Bye Jack, talk soon.” He scribbles something down, the phone being placed quietly back on the hook and shuffling. The refrigerator opening and closing. 

Then he’s yawning and shuffling back into the bedroom. He climbs into the bed next to Brian, and gently wraps his arms around him. 

Within minutes, he’s snoring away. Sleep chases Brian, but never catches him. Plenty of time to think.

 

* * *

 

After morning coffee and eggs,  Curt announces that he must run an errand. 

“Is this to get weed?” 

Curt almost chokes on his own spit. 

“Uh.” 

“I heard you on the phone.” 

“I see.” 

“You know,” Brian says, reaching across the table to take his hand. “You don’t have to sneak around me. I know this is how you are. I’m concerned about your reliance, not the drug itself. I’m here for you.” 

“I just didn’t wanna disappoint you.” 

He leans over and cradles his face in one hand. 

“Never, my sweet boy. Just want you safe. Can you let me know where you’re going?” 

“They’re not gonna kidnap me.” 

“You never know.” 

He goes. 

Brian frets about the flat, as there’s a break from rehearsal today. He cleans and listens to records and even decides to dust and sweep a bit. 

Cleaning things himself was never one of his favorite things to do, but he did enjoy tidiness. 

As if Curt would really notice a bit of dust, as if that would impact his decision.

Anxiety creeps under his skin, but he can’t let this chance pass him by. He has to swallow it. He can’t let Curt go back to Seattle to stay for any length of time, not without him. 

Not with how their last separation was. 

Never again, not like that. Not with the marks it had left. 

He burns rose incense, for love, washes the dishes, straightens the living room, and then all too soon, Curt is back. 

“Hi.” 

“Hello.” 

He holds up a bag full of weed. 

“I’m a happy boy!” 

“You’re ridiculous. Smoke a little and then I’d like to talk, nothing’s wrong, just have a question.” 

He does, sitting at the table, packing a bowl and fidgeting. Brian sits down across from him. 

Smoke pours out of Curt’s mouth, and he’s beautiful. It floats about the room and slowly disappears. The smell mixes with the rose, and strangely, it’s pleasant. 

Brian stares at him, taking him in, trying to gather the courage, and the words. 

“So, about our living situation?” He finally says. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel that our last time apart went very smoothly.” 

“Yeah,” Curt says, eyes far away and a lazy smile across his face. Obviously he’s already feeling it. “I agree.” 

“I just-” He sighs, frustrated at his hesitation. “I’m not sure I can bear to have you ripped away from me like that again.” 

“Brian-” 

“You’re far more important to me than my career. And perhaps that’s a silly and childish thing to say, but it’s how I feel, Curt. Really, if you’ll just stay, I don’t care where we are, I just-” 

“Are you asking me to move in?” 

Brian blinks at him, eyes glassy. 

“Well, yes.” 

“My answer is yes.” 

He stutters, and shifts.

“Really? Just like that?” 

“I can live here. You don’t have to leave your work. I can make music anywhere. And if Jack and Malcolm wanna make another record, it’ll be a lot shorter of a flight for them to come here.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” 

“I like it here.” 

“You do?” 

“Yeah, I like wherever you are, just like I liked England.” 

“Curt.” 

He leans across the table and kisses him, harsh but sweet. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, I just, I can’t believe it’s this easy. For once in our lives.” 

  
  



End file.
